Wild Cards V: Down and Dirty

by George R. R. Martin

  Kate drew on her cigarette, exhaled. “Mod Man,” she said, “you need help.”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m calling you.”

  “I mean other wild cards. You can’t face these two alone.”

  “If I went to SCARE or someone, and we captured Croyd together, then I’d have to fight the SCARE aces to get him away. I’d be an outlaw.”

  “Maybe you could make some kind of deal with them.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’ll try.” Despair wailed through him. “I’m going to die,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. Can’t you—just leave?”

  “I’m programmed to obey him. I can’t refuse a direct order. And I’m programmed to battle the enemies of society. I don’t have a choice in any of that. People like the Turtle, or Cyclone—it’s their decision to do what they do. It was never mine. I’m not human that way.”

  “I see.”

  “Sooner or later I’m going to lose a fight. I don’t heal like people, someone has to repair me. Any parts that get broken won’t get fixed. If I don’t die, I’ll be a cripple, pieces falling off.” Like Travnicek, he thought, and a cold shudder ran through his mind. “And even if I’m crippled,” he went on, “I’ll still have to fight. I still won’t have any choice.”

  There was a long silence. “I don’t know what to tell you.” Her voice was choked.

  “I was sort of immortal before,” Modular Man said. “My creator was going to mass-produce me and sell me to the military. If any single unit was destroyed, the others would go on. They’d have identical programming; they’d still be me, at least mostly me. Now that’s not going to happen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What happens to machines when they die? I’ve been wondering that.”

  “I—”

  “Your ancient philosophers never thought about that, right?”

  “I suppose they didn’t. But they had a lot to say about mortality in general. ‘Must not all things be swallowed in death’—Plato, quoting Socrates.”

  “Thank you. That’s really comforting.”

  “There’s not a lot of comforting things to say about death. I’m sorry.”

  “I never really worried about it before. I’d never died before.”

  “Most of us don’t get to come back even once. None of the others killed on Wild Card Day came back.”

  “This may be a temporary aberration. Normality may resume at any point.”

  The android realized he was shouting. The words echoed on the empty street. He swiftly wrote himself a piece of programming to keep his voice level.

  Kate thought for a long moment. “Most of us have a lifetime to get used to the idea that we have to die. You’ve just had a few hours.”

  “I have a hard time getting my mind around it. There are all these feedback loops in my brain, and my thoughts keep going round and round. They’re taking up more and more space.”

  “In other words, you’re panicking.”

  “Am I?” He thought about this for a moment. “I suppose I am.”

  “The prospect of death, to misquote Samuel Johnson, is supposed to concentrate the mind wonderfully.”

  “I’ll work at it.” He suited action to words, swiftly putting an end to the runamuck computer logic that was smashing up against too many unknowns and infinities to do anything other than fill up his logic systems with macroatomic hash. A cooler and more systematic approach to the problem seemed indicated.

  “Okay. That’s done.”

  “That was fast.”

  “One point six six six seconds.”

  She laughed. “Not bad.”

  “I’m glad you recognized what was happening. I’m not really wired to deal with abstracts. I’d never got hung up that way before.”

  “You’re still superhuman. No human could do that.” She thought for a moment. “Do you know Millay? ‘My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—It gives a lovely light.’”

  The android considered this. “I suppose that, aesthetically, I might have produced an objectively lovely light when I blew up. The thought seems a bit barren of comfort, mainly I suppose because I wasn’t there to see it.”

  “I think you missed my point.” Patiently. “You are incredibly fast at both action and cognition. Your means of apprehending your surroundings are more complete and acute than those of a human. You have the capacity to experience your existence more thoroughly and intensely than anyone on the planet. Might this not compensate for any shortness of duration?”

  The notion was encoded, spun into the maelstrom of the android’s electronic mind, whirled like a leaf into a cold electronic torrent.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” he said.

  “You seemed to have crammed a lot of existence into the months you were on the planet. You had many of the experiences that people say lead to wisdom. War, comradeship, love, responsibility—even death.”

  The android gazed into the mutilated face of Barnett, the presidential candidate, and wondered who the man in the picture was. “I guess I kept busy,” he said.

  “There are a lot of people who would envy that existence.”

  “I’ll try to bear that in mind.”

  “You burn very bright. Cherish that.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And you may not burn out. You fought the Swarm without taking serious injury, and there were hundreds of thousands of them. These are just a couple of guys.”

  “A couple of guys.”

  “You’ll deal with it. I have confidence in you.”

  “Thank you.” JOKER DEATH, the poster read. “I think you’ve given me something to consider.”

  “I hope I could help. Call me if you need to talk again.”

  “Thanks. You’ve really been of great assistance.”

  “Anytime.”

  Modular Man put the phone on the hook and rose silently into the sky. He rose into the darkness, drifted the several blocks to Travnicek’s apartment, went in through the skylight. Joker Death, he thought.

  Travnicek was lying on his bed, apparently asleep. The camp bed was surrounded by empty tins of food: apparently he’d been eating the stuff right from the cans. Some of the organs around Travnicek’s neck had blossomed a bit, were making ultrasonic chirping sounds, the period of which decreased as the android dropped into the apartment. Sonar, the android thought. Travnicek opened the eyes around his neck.

  “You,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The module’s rebuilt. I think. Some of my memories were kind of hazy.”

  Fear filled the android. A fly buzzed past and he chased it away with a flap of his arm. “I’ll try it.” He opened his jumpsuit and his chest, reached for the module that waited on the workbench.

  “My brain seems to be evolving,” Travnicek said. His voice was dreamy. “I think what’s happening is that the virus is enlarging the brain sections concerned with sensory input. I’m perceiving things in every possible way now, very intensely. I’ve never experienced anything as intensely as I can just lying here, watching things.” He gave a hollow laugh. “My god! I never knew that eating creamed corn from the can could be such a sensual experience!”

  Modular Man inserted the module, ran test patterns. Relief flooded him. The monitor worked.

  “Very good, sir,” he said. “Hang on.”

  “You’re so interesting this way,” Travnicek said. The fly was wandering near the empty food cans.

  There was sudden movement. One of the organs around Travnicek’s neck uncoiled with lightning rapidity and caught the fly. The extrusion snapped back and stuffed the fly into Travnicek’s mouth.

  The android couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

  “Wonderful,” said Travnicek. Smacking his lips.

  “Hang on, sir,” Modular Man said again. His flux field crackled around him. He flew through the roof and into the blackness.

  Arriving at the bank, the androi
d turned insubstantial, burned every vault sensor with bursts from his microwave laser so that any guards couldn’t see what happened next, then stepped into the vault, solidified himself, and ripped the deposit box from its resting place.

  Suddenly he stopped. A yellow warning light glowed in his mind, flickered, turned red.

  He tried to go insubstantial again. He rotated ninety degrees from the real for a fraction of a second, then he felt something go and he was solid again, standing in the bank vault. He could smell something burning.

  The flux monitor was gone again. Travnicek’s repairs hadn’t been permanent. A chill eddy of fear rippled through the android’s mind at the thought that it might have happened when he was in the steel-and-concrete wall of the vault.

  He looked around, examined the door and the lock. If he were found here in the morning, he thought, his reputation as a do-gooder would definitely suffer.

  It proved fortunate that vaults are made to prevent people breaking in, not out. Forty-five minutes’ patient work with the microwave laser burned a hole in the laminated interior of the door, gaining him access to the lock apparatus. He reached through, touched the mechanism, felt an awareness of its function. He glitched the electronics—easy as getting a free telephone call—and the heavy bolts slid back.

  He took the emergency stairs out, burning cameras as he went. Once out he flew to the roof of a nearby building, tore the box open, and examined the contents.

  Long-term leases, he found, to several small apartments in the New York area. Keys. Stacks of currency. Jewelry, gold coins. Bottles containing hundreds of pills. A pair of pistols and boxes of ammunition. Croyd’s secret stash of money, weapons, drugs, and the keys to his hideouts.

  He thought for a long moment. Travnicek was deteriorating swiftly. The android was going to have to move fast, and he was going to have to get some help.

  “I don’t want to have to do the scouting,” Modular Man said. “If they see me again, they’ll run. And they’ll spread the plague while they do it.”

  “Very well.” Tachyon’s violet eyes glittered as his hands played with the velvet lapels of his lavender jacket. His .357 and holster sat on the desk before him. On his office wall, next to a set of honorary degrees, was a sign with red, white, and blue lettering: THE MAN: HARTMANN. THE TIME: 1988. THE PLAN: OUR CHILDREN’S FUTURE.

  “My joker squad can be of use. Some of them should prove capable of covert reconnaissance.”

  “Good. I should stay here with your most powerful people. Then we can move out together.”

  The contents of Croyd’s deposit box were spread out on Tachyon’s desk and he looked at them. “There are only three addresses actually in Manhattan,” Tachyon said. “I suspect he’d try for one of those first before trying the tunnels and bridges. Blind Sophie can use her acute hearing to listen in on what’s going on behind a closed window, using the vibrations of the window glass as a diaphragm. Squish is a taxi driver, hence unobtrusive … he might be able to make inquiries that might seem suspicious from anyone else.” Tachyon frowned. “Croyd’s companion, however … that handsome young gentleman is going to prove difficult to deal with.”

  “I’ve fought him twice. But I think I know how his power works.”

  Tachyon stared. He leaned forward over the desk, pushing aside the pistol in its holster, his expression intent. “Tell me, sir.”

  “He absorbs energy, then returns it. He can only attack after he’s already been hit. He absorbs all sorts of energy—kinetic, radiation…”

  “Psionic,” Tachyon murmured.

  “But if you don’t hit him first, he doesn’t have any more strength than a normal person. So whatever we do, we can’t attack him. Just ignore him, no matter how tempting a target he makes himself.”

  “Yes. Very good, Modular Man. You are to be commended.”

  The android looked at Tachyon and apprehension spun through his mind. “I need to get Croyd away as fast as possible. I can’t catch the wild card from him, so I think I should deal with him solo—he’s got enough strength to tear through your biochemical warfare suits. I’m powerful enough to subdue him if I don’t have to worry about anyone else.”

  “The task is yours.” Simply.

  Triumph settled in the android. He was going to be able to seize Croyd and get him to Travnicek without interference.

  Maybe things were looking up at last.

  The phone rang on Tachyon’s desk. The alien snatched it.

  “Tachyon here.” Modular Man saw Tachyon’s violet eyes dilate with interest. “Very good. You are to be commended, Sophie. Stay there until we arrive.” He returned the phone to its cradle. “Sophie believes they’re in the Perry Street address. She can hear two people, and one of them is talking nonstop as if he was affected by stimulants.”

  The android jumped to his feet. His emergency pack had already been prepared, and he slung it on his back. Tachyon pressed a button on his telephone.

  “Tell the squad to suit up,” he said. “And after a decent interval, inform the police.”

  “I’ll fly on ahead,” the android said. He flung open the door and almost ran into a slim, erect black man who was standing just outside the door in the secretary’s office. He wore a biochem suit and a feathered black-and-white death’s-head mask. His smell was appalling, must and rotting flesh. A joker.

  “Pardon me, sir,” the man said. His voice was an educated, somewhat theatrical baritone. “Could you take me with you?”

  Modular Man’s software wove swift subroutines to eliminate the man’s smell from his sensory input. “I don’t believe I know you.”

  “Mr. Gravemold.” A minute bow. “I am a member of the good doctor’s joker squad.”

  “Can’t you travel with them in the ambulance?”

  The android sensed a smile behind the dramatic mask. “I’m afraid that in the close confines of an automobile, my scent becomes rather … overwhelming.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Gravemold.” Tachyon’s voice was strangled. “What are you doing in my secretary’s office? Were you trying to eavesdrop?”

  “That’s Mister Gravemold, Doctor.” The deep actor’s voice was sharp.

  “Beg pardon, I’m sure.” Tachyon’s voice was denasal.

  “In answer to your question, I was waiting to speak to our artificial friend. I wished to spare the other squad members the burden of my … perfume.”

  “Right.” Through clenched teeth. “Do as you please, Modular Man.”

  The android and Mr. Gravemold left the clinic at a fast trot, and then Modular Man wrapped his arms around the joker from behind and lifted him into the air. Air ruffled the feathers on Mr. Gravemold’s mask.

  “Sir,” the android said. “Are there any abilities you have besides, ah…”

  “My smell?” The deep voice was barren of amusement. “Indeed I have. As well as smelling as if I were dead, I have the powers of death. I can bring the cold of the grave to my enemies.”

  “That sounds … useful.” Crazy, the android thought. The joker had been smelling his own perfume too long and it had driven him mad.

  “I’m also fast and tough,” Mr. Gravemold added.

  “Good. So is Croyd.” Quickly the android explained about the albino and his abilities, and also about the nature of his bodyguard. “Oh, yes,” he added. “And Croyd is carrying a gun. A forty-four Automag.”

  “A preposterous weapon. He must be feeling insecure.”

  “Glad it doesn’t bother you.”

  The Perry Street brownstone came in sight below. Modular Man dropped to the ground a few feet downwind of a slim, long-haired, middle-aged woman wearing shades and carrying a white cane. She was standing in the shadows by a doorstoop. The woman looked up. Her nose wrinkled.

  “Gravemold,” she said.

  “Mister Gravemold, if you please.”

  “In that case,” said Blind Sophie, “I’m Miss Yudkowski.”

  “I have never referred to you by any
other name, madam.”

  A pair of ears, round like those of a cartoon mouse, seemed to inflate on either side of Sophie’s head, rising like balloons past concealing strands of long, dark hair. She cocked her head toward Modular Man. “Hello, whoever you are. I didn’t hear you till now.”

  “I didn’t know I made any noise.”

  “You’re a little late, gentlemen,” Sophie said. “The two men left a couple minutes ago. Just after I got back from the telephone.”

  Annoyance flickered through the android’s circuits. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “God forbid I should interfere with Mr. Gravemold correcting my speech.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “They didn’t say. I believe they took the back way out.”

  Without saying anything more Modular Man seized Mr. Gravemold again and rose into the sky. He swiftly quartered the district, radar searching out. Mr. Gravemold lay passively in his arms. Silent, the android thought, as the grave.

  “We’re on the way.” Tachyon’s voice crackled on Modular Man’s receivers.

  “There’s a problem,” Modular Man said, pulsing silent radio waves toward the clinic. He explained quickly.

  “We shall continue heading in your direction, Modular Man,” Tachyon said.

  “There,” said Mr. Gravemold, pointing. A pair of human-size radar images detached themselves from the shadow of a rusting iron pillar that helped support the deserted West Side Express Highway.

  The android was surprised. The joker had incredibly good night vision. The android drifted silently toward the pair. He had to come within three hundred yards before he was certain the two were Croyd and his companion.

  Uneasiness stirred him. The last time he’d almost died.

  Burning bright. Kate’s voice echoed in his mind.

  Each was burdened: the young man held a bulky parcel, and Croyd carried an outboard motor over one shoulder. Croyd was talking endlessly, but the android couldn’t hear him. The two walked swift down a corroded concrete street and came to a stop at a chain link fence that cut off a Hudson River pier from the mainland. The albino put down his burden, inspected the padlock and chain that held the gate shut, and snapped the hasp with a quick twist of his fingers. The two moved through the gate and passed by a deserted guard box with shattered windows.