Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild

by George R. R. Martin

  “The door is still an option.”

  She looked hard to make sure he meant it, then ran for it. The others followed more slowly, not willing to turn their backs on Fortunato.

  “Gresham?” Tachyon said. His voice warbled with anger and hurt. “Nurse Gresham?”

  “What?” the nurse said.

  “How could you? How could you betray my trust?”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Gresham said. “What do I care about your fucking trust?”

  Tachyon put both hands to his head. His fingers pulled the flesh into a monster face. Fortunato wondered if he was going to combust. Instead Gresham’s eyes rolled up in her head. She spun around once and slammed into the decaying wall next to the door.

  “Jesus,” Fortunato said. “Did you kill her?”

  Tachyon shook his head. “No. She’s not dead. Though she deserved it.”

  “Then you need to get her out of here,” Fortunato said. “Both of you. While you still can. I’m going to split that ship like an oyster.”

  “No!” It was practically a scream. “You can’t! I forbid it!”

  “Don’t get in my way, little man. The Astronomer is one of yours. It’s your virus did this to him. I’m going to finish this. If you get in my way I’ll kill you.”

  “Not the ship,” Tachyon said. The little bastard really didn’t know when to be scared. Fortunato had to give him that much. “She’s alive. It’s not her fault this is happening to her. You can’t punish her for it.”

  “There’s more at stake here than a goddamn piece of machinery.”

  Tachyon shook his head. “Not for me there isn’t. And she’s not a machine. If you try to harm her, you’ll have to stop to fight me first. You can’t afford that. The Astronomer will kill us all.”

  The little fuck was not going to back down. “All right. Okay. We play it your way. But you get the Astronomer out of that ship. Or I’ll get him out any way I have to.”

  Tachyon paused for a second and then said, “Agreed.”

  “What about me?” Roulette said.

  “You’re coming with me,” Tachyon said. He took her hand and pulled her into the ship after him.

  The Astronomer leaned nonchalantly against a post of the bed. The sleeves of his robe were encrusted with blood, and there was the sour odor of death about his bony form. But for the first time since meeting him Roulette sensed confusion and hesitation.

  He turned his maddened, red-rimmed eyes upon them.

  “You didn’t kill him.”

  The Takisian stepped forward, boot heels ticking on the polished floor. “I proved tougher than you anticipated.” The awful gaze switched to Tachyon. “And only a coward sends a woman to do his killing.”

  “Is that the best you can do? Toss a few insults in my direction? You’re pitiful, little man.”

  Suddenly the master Mason staggered, groaned, and clutched at his head. Tachyon, hair like a fiery cloud on his shoulders, eyes bright in a pale face, began to tremble with strain, and beads of sweat lined his forehead. Then, with menacing slowness, the Astronomer straightened, shook off the alien’s mind control. Tachyon’s eyes widened in fear.

  “Die, you irritating gnat.” The talonlike fingers curled, and Tachyon flung himself to one side as a ball of flame exploded on the spot he had been standing.

  The floor tilted wildly as Baby flinched.

  “It’s no good. This ship can’t be your escape.” Tachyon scrabbled across the polished floor as another ball of flame exploded a delicate chair behind which he’d been hiding. “She doesn’t navigate herself. How’s your astrogation?”

  Roulette squeezed herself into an alcove praying to be overlooked, praying to avoid being incinerated by one of her master’s errant energy bolts.

  “And you better not sleep if you do get off the planet. She’s a sentient being, but of course you’ve figured that out.” Tachyon yelped, and the shoulder of his coat blackened. “You drop your coercion, and she’ll blow the locks, or fly into a star. One of the drawbacks to a living ship, as other enemies before you have discovered.”

  The pyrotechnic display died. The Astronomer eyed Tachyon with something approaching pleasure. “You’ve made some interesting points, Doctor. So I’ll take you with me.”

  “No . . . I think . . . not.” Gasping breaths punctuated the words. “I’ve set a deathlock. All that I am, body, soul, and mind, oppose you now. To possess me you will have to destroy me.”

  “A pleasing image.”

  “Which still leaves you with your original problem.” They were circling the room, Tachyon edging warily away from the Astronomer, the Astronomer pacing him with the patience of a predator. “And there’s another small matter, but I thought I ought mention it. Fortunato’s outside. Waiting. He’ll crack this ship to get at you. I’d prefer that he not. Which is why I’m here—though I can think of nothing I’d rather do less than face you.”

  But the Astronomer had stopped listening. At the mention of Fortunato his face had suffused with blood, and an explosive expletive left his lips flecked with spittle.

  “You’ve plagued me long enough, you useless piece of shit. This time I will finish it.”

  He plunged out of the ship, and Tachyon, seizing Roulette by the wrist, raced after him. And into hell. Balls of flame screamed through the air, searing the concrete floor and igniting the warehouse walls. There was a backblast of air that sent them tumbling, and Tachyon’s hand slipped from her wrist. Masonry and girders rained down as Baby, terrified beyond reasoning, burst through the roof and fled into the night. Choking from the plaster dust, Roulette crawled for the door, ignoring Tachyon’s frantic calls, first for Baby, then for her.

  Cradling the Magnum she huddled in an alley, and watched the sky.

  CHAPTER 23

  4:00 a.m.

  Fortunato felt his legs come off the ground and fold into a lotus. His thumbs touched his forefingers and settled on his knees. He felt as if his final orgasm with Peregrine was still going on. When she held him and drove the power back into him it was like being blown to atoms and coming back together with the entire universe inside him. He felt like the core of a sun, with flares of energy shooting off him uncontrollably. He felt like it would never end.

  It was five minutes later when the Astronomer came out of the ship. Fortunato had lived through his entire life again in every detail, the feel of silk against his skin, the sound of every note of music he’d ever heard, the taste of the breath of every woman he’d ever kissed. It had taken forever and no time at all.

  “Motherfucker!” the Astronomer screamed. “You’re a worm, a maggot, a fucking amoeba! Why do you keep buzzing around my head, you fly, you mosquito, you locust? Why do you not fucking die and depart?” He raised his thin hands and the sleeves of his blood-caked robe slid back past his elbows. The insides of his arms were dotted with bruises and sores. Fortunato remembered the heroin he’d seen at the Cloisters.

  The Astronomer’s hands swelled like canteloupes and then exploded with balls of flame, hundreds of them, screaming through the air at Fortunato. Each one peeled off a layer of his power as he deflected it and he couldn’t rebuild his shields fast enough. The last fireball singed the hair off his left arm.

  The roof of the warehouse exploded. The Astronomer shot through it into the sky, still screaming. “A dog that chases me down the street, trying to chew my shoes. Magick? Your kissing and hugging and fucking and sucking? You’re a child, a larva, a little, helpless, wriggling sperm. You’ve never seen power.” He pulled Fortunato up in his wake, and the warehouses, and then the island, fell away under them.

  Now the Astronomer was glowing. Hotter, brighter than Fortunato. “Death is the power. Pus and rot and corruption. Hatred and pain and war.”

  Fortunato saw that the Astronomer was more powerful than he’d ever imagined. It left him strangely calm. The city was far below and behind him, nothing more than a grid of lights. They were over the East River between Manhattan and Queens. The Williamsburg B
ridge was just to Fortunato’s right, the cables clanking hollowly in the wind.

  They were high enough up that Fortunato’s skin felt cold where his tux shirt hung open. The air was clean and a salt smell blew in from Long Island Sound. His legs had unfolded and he stood in midair, his arms curled at his sides. He knew he was going to die.

  He saw himself as the hexagram Ken, the Mountain, keeping still. His opponent was Sung, Conflict, boiling with chaos and destruction. There was no point in rebuilding his shields. He drew all the power inside him into the middle of his body, formed it into a sphere and compressed it. Harder, tighter, until all his strength and knowledge and energy was compacted into a grain the size of a pinhead, just behind his navel.

  There would be no second chance. He launched it at the Astronomer. It shot through the air, leaving Fortunato limp and frail and empty. It was so bright he had to put his hands in front of his eyes, and even so he could see the bones through his flesh.

  He felt rather than saw it penetrate the Astronomer, going through his shields like a bullet through jelly. When he could see again the Astronomer was doubled up in shock and pain.

  The Astronomer burst into flame. He burned hot and red, and dense black smoke boiled off him. His arms stuck out of the fireball at odd angles and Fortunato watched them turn black and crusty.

  And then the flames died.

  The Astronomer’s body was blackened, mummified. The wind blew charcoal-scented flakes of burnt skin off him as he floated.

  Fortunato took a breath. He had a little power left after all, enough to keep them afloat, but that was all. And it would soon be gone.

  He couldn’t seem to move. A sense of nothingness surrounded him.

  The Astronomer opened his eyes.

  “Is that all?” he said. He screamed with laughter, and slowly straightened his body. Burned skin showered off him and Fortunato could see the scalded pink flesh underneath. “Is that your best shot? Is that really all you can do? I would pity you. I would pity you except you hurt me, and now you have to die.”

  Fortunato saw the hideous, blistered little man gathering himself, and the nothingness around him told him what to do.

  He chanted silently, banishing his fear. He cleared his mind, found the last thoughts that still snagged there—Caroline, Veronica, Peregrine—pulled them loose and let them flutter down toward the lights below.

  He slowed his heart and it started thrashing again and he calmed it, finally.

  It was, after all, only death.

  He touched the Astronomer’s mind and saw the power beginning to uncoil, and reached in to help. He loosened the bonds and pulled the damping rods and opened all the switches. He turned the dials up to ten.

  We go together, Fortunato thought. You and me. Nothing mattered; he became nothing, less than nothing, a vacuum. Come to me, he thought. Bring everything you have.

  The night filled with cold white light.

  Most of the crowd couldn’t even see the battle over the East River because of their angle of sight being limited by the Manhattan skyline. It was mainly the observers standing in the intersections who could look along the numbered streets east to the spectacle.

  Even those onlookers weren’t completely impressed as the fireballs coruscated and exploded. One joker, staring at the sparks cascading down toward the river, said in range of Jack’s hearing, “Hey, I saw a lot more spectacular stuff during the Bicentennial. This ain’t nothing. Why don’t they go do something over the Statue of Liberty?”

  “Yeah!” said someone else. “That’d be neat.”

  No one peering goggle-eyed from the intersection of 14th Street and Avenue A had any idea just what was going on above the river.

  “I’ve got a date in three hours,” said Bagabond. “It’s my first date in twenty years, and now the world’s ending.”

  The fireworks dimmed and died.

  “I think it’s over,” said Jack. “The world’s not ending. You’ve still got your date. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  She recoiled and stepped away from him.

  He realized what she was thinking and hastily said, “I’m not being sarcastic. I mean it. Who is he?”

  “Paul Goldberg.”

  “The lawyer? Rosemary’s office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’re you going to wear?” said Jack.

  Bagabond hesitated. “The usual.”

  Jack laughed. “Bag lady outfit?”

  She shook her head angrily. “Business suit.”

  “Come on.”

  This time it was Jack who grabbed Bagabond’s arm and tugged her along the street. “It’s maybe three blocks to All Nite Mari Ann’s,” he said. “It’s the in place this season.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bagabond.

  “You need an all-night boutique,” said Jack. “This is going to be fun.”

  “I’m not looking for fun,” said Bagabond.

  “You want to look really great at your breakfast date?”

  She resolutely stared straight ahead.

  “Then, let’s go, kiddo.”

  She tried to lag as he led the way down the street. Jack waited for her, took her elbow, merrily steered her along. He was whistling an off-key version of “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”

  “You’re no Judy Garland,” Bagabond said.

  Jack just smiled.

  The crowds were starting to thin out, almost as though the epic battle over the East River had been equivalent to the nightly fireworks at Disneyland, signaling families it was time to take the kids home. More than that, the crowds seemed simply to be exhausted. It had been a long, long day.

  All Nite Mari Ann’s was sufficiently successful; it could afford to spread out more than the average boutique. It sprawled through the ground floor of what had once been a parking garage.

  Jack led Bagabond along a window-shopping tour of the front of the store. “Yes,” he said. “Oh yes. A silk dress, see?” He pointed. He looked into her face and then back into the interior of the shop. “Teal, I think. Perfect.” He moved ahead of her. “Come on, Suzanne. It’s Cinderella time.”

  Bagabond made one final attempt to stall. “I don’t have much money with me.”

  Holding the door for her, Jack said, “I have an account.”

  When the burst of power went through him, there was nothing left of Fortunato to resist it. Nothing resisted it, and so it passed through him. And as it passed it left particles behind, particles of knowledge and memory and understanding.

  Fortunato saw a little man in thick glasses crawling out of the East River, twenty years ago. There were no memories before that. Where there should have been memories there was only a seared place, self-inflicted. The Astronomer was self-made; there was no human identity, no human history left to him.

  The little man had crawled into the grass of East River Park and he had looked up into the night sky. And the wild card virus uncoiled in him for the first time and his mind shot out into that sky and moved between the stars. It saw clouds of gas that burned in reds and purples and blues. It saw planets striped and whorled and ringed and haloed. It saw moons and comets and shapeless lumps of asteroid.

  And it saw something moving. Something dark and nearly mindless, something vast and rubbery and foul, something hungry. And his mind began to scream.

  The little man found himself outside a brick building in Jokertown, naked except for his glasses, still screaming. A door opened and a man named Balsam took him in. Took him in and taught him the secrets, taught him the name of the thing he’d seen, the name that was the ultimate Masonic word: TIAMAT.

  Taught him about the machine, the Shakti device that the brother from the stars had brought to Cagliostro. Cagliostro who had founded the Order, to protect the knowledge of TIAMAT—the Dark Sister—and the Shakti device.

  Until Balsam had nothing left to teach the little man, and it was time for the little man to become the Astronomer, and remove Balsam, with the unwitting help of a bum
bling magician named Fortunato. To take control of the Order. To realize their destiny. To found a religious tyranny of Egyptian Masons that would rule the world. A world that would come begging to be ruled out of awe and gratitude. For the Astronomer would use the Shakti device as it had always been meant to be used . . .

  “No,” Fortunato said. “No.”

  But the knowledge would not go away. The knowledge that the Shakti device had been given to the Masons to save the Earth from TIAMAT, not to lure her there. To call the Network to destroy her.

  The Shakti device could have saved them and Fortunato had destroyed it. Because of him, thousands had died. For all his claims of wisdom he was still only a creature of impulse, nothing but a temperamental child.

  The Astronomer still lived. The filmed glasses were still hooked around his ears, the tatters of his robe snapped in the wind, his chest moved up and down. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and his power was gone. Completely.

  It would take nothing at all for Fortunato to drift across the thirty feet that separated them, put his hands around the little man’s throat, and finish him.

  Instead he left him fall.

  Long seconds later Fortunato heard the splash as the little man came full circle, back into the East River again.

  Henry Street was still and deserted, its revelry closed with the Crystal Palace. Sawhorses still closed off both ends of the block, though the street fair was long over. Hiram and Jay walked down the middle of the street, past the darkened rowhouses. The gutters were choked with litter: napkins, paper cups, plastic forks, newspapers.

  Halfway up the block, a dark shape stepped out from the shadows to accost them. Popinjay’s hand came out of his pocket fast, but Hiram grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” he said.

  The shape moved under the light of a streetlamp. It was a heavy gray-haired woman in a shapeless green army jacket. The bottom half of her body was a single huge white leg, moist and boneless. She pushed herself forward like a snail. “Spare change?” she asked. “Spare change for a poor joker?”