Wild Cards IV: Aces Abroad

by Stephen Leigh

  With Wilde gone, Father Squid and myself are the only true representatives of the joker point of view, I feel. Howard M. (Troll, to the world) is an imposing presence, nine feet tall, incredibly strong, his green-tinged skin as tough and hard as horn, and I also know him to be a profoundly decent and competent man, and a very intelligent one, but . . . he is by nature a follower, not a leader, and there is a shyness in him, a reticence, that prevents him from speaking out. His height makes it impossible for him to blend with the crowd, but sometimes I think that is what he desires most profoundly.

  As for Chrysalis, she is none of those things, and she has her own unique charisma. I cannot deny that she is a respected community leader, one of the most visible (no pun intended) and powerful of jokers. Yet I have never much liked Chrysalis. Perhaps this is my own prejudice and self-interest. The rise of the Crystal Palace has had much to do with the decline of the Funhouse. But there are deeper issues. Chrysalis wields considerable power in Jokertown, but she has never used it to benefit anyone but herself. She has been aggressively apolitical, carefully distancing herself from the JADL and all joker rights agitation. When the times called for passion and commitment, she remained cool and uninvolved, hidden behind her cigarette holders, liqueurs, and upper-class. British accent.

  Chrysalis speaks only for Chrysalis, and Troll seldom speaks at all, which leaves it to Father Squid and myself to speak for the jokers. I would do it gladly, but I am so tired. . . .

  I fell asleep early and was wakened by the sounds of my fellow delegates returning from the dinner. It went rather well, I understand. Excellent. We need some triumphs. Howard tells me that Hartmann gave a splendid speech and seemed to captivate President de la Madrid Hurtado throughout the meal. Peregrine captivated all the other males in the room, according to reports. I wonder if the other women are envious. Mistral is quite pretty, Fantasy is mesmerizing when she dances, and Radha O’Reilly is arresting, her mixed Irish and Indian heritage giving her features a truly exotic cast. But Peregrine overshadows all of them. What do they make of her?

  The male aces certainly approve. The Stacked Deck is close quarters, and gossip travels quickly up and down the aisles. Word is that Dr. Tachyon and Jack Braun have both made passes and have been firmly rebuffed. If anything, Peregrine seems closest with her cameraman, a nat who travels back with the rest of the reporters. She’s making a documentary of this trip.

  Hiram is also close to Peregrine, but while there’s a certain flirtatiousness to their constant banter, their friendship is more platonic in nature. Worchester has only one true love, and that’s food. To that, his commitment is extraordinary. He seems to know all the best restaurants in every city we visit. His privacy is constantly being invaded by local chefs, who sneak up to his hotel room at all hours, carrying their specialties and begging for just a moment, just a taste, just a little approval. Far from objecting, Hiram delights in it.

  In Haiti he found a cook he liked so much that he hired him on the spot and prevailed upon Hartmann to make a few calls to the INS and expedite the visa and work permit. We saw the man briefly at the Port-au-Prince airport, struggling with a huge trunk full of cast-iron cookware. Hiram made the trunk light enough for his new employee (who speaks no English, but Hiram insists that spices are a universal language) to carry on one shoulder. At tonight’s dinner, Howard tells me, Worchester insisted on visiting the kitchen to get the chef’s recipe for chicken mole, but while he was back there he concocted some sort of flaming dessert in honor of our hosts.

  By rights I ought to object to Hiram Worchester, who revels in his acedom more than any other man I know, but I find it hard to dislike anyone who enjoys life so much and brings such enjoyment to those around him. Besides, I am well aware of his various anonymous charities in Jokertown, though he does his best to conceal them. Hiram is no more comfortable around my kind than Tachyon is, but his heart is as large as the rest of him.

  Tomorrow the group will fragment yet again. Senators Hartmann and Lyons, Congressman Rabinowitz, and Ericsson from WHO will meet with the leaders of the PRI, Mexico’s ruling party, while Tachyon and our medical staff visit a clinic that has claimed extraordinary success in treating the virus with laetrile. Our aces are scheduled to lunch with three of their Mexican counterparts. I’m pleased to say that Troll has been invited to join them. In some quarters, at least, his superhuman strength and near invulnerability have qualified him as an ace. A small breakthrough, of course, but a breakthrough nonetheless.

  The rest of us will be traveling down to Yucatan and the Quintana Roo to look at Mayan ruins and the sites of several reported antijoker atrocities. Rural Mexico, it seems, is not as enlightened as Mexico City. The others will join us in Chichén Itzá the following day, and our last day in Mexico will be given over to tourism.

  And then it will be on to Guatemala . . . perhaps. The daily press has been full of reports on an insurrection down there, an Indian uprising against the central government, and several of our journalists have gone ahead already, sensing a bigger story than this tour. If the situation seems too unstable, we may be forced to skip that stop.

  THE TINT OF HATRED

  Part Two

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1986, MEXICO:

  I stand in El Templo de los Jaguares, the Temple of the Jaguars, in Chichén Itzá. Under the fierce Yucatan sun the archway is impressive, two thick columns carved in the likeness of gigantic snakes, their huge, stylized heads flanking the entrance, their linked tails supporting the lintel.

  “A thousand years ago, the guide books tell us, Mayan priests cheered the players in El Juego de Pelota, the ball court twenty-five feet below. It was a game that would be familiar to any of us. The players struck a hard rubber ball with their knees, elbows, and hips, scoring as the ball caromed through rings set in the long stone walls flanking the narrow field. A simple game, played for the glory of the god Quetzalcoatl, or Kukulcan, as those here called him.

  “As his reward, the captain of the victorious team would be carried to the temple. The losing captain would behead his opponent with an obsidian knife, sending him into a glorious afterlife. A bizarre reward for conquest, by our standards.

  “Too different to be comfortable.

  “I look out on this ancient place, and the walls are still brown with blood; not of Mayans, but of jokers. The wild card plague struck here late and virulently. Some scientists have hypothesized that the mind-set of the victim influences the virus; thus, from a teenager fascinated by dinosaurs, you get Kid Dinosaur. From an obese master chef such as Hiram Worchester, you get someone who can control gravity. Dr. Tachyon, when asked, has been evasive on the subject, since it suggests that the deformed jokers have somehow punished themselves. That’s just the kind of emotional fodder that reactionaries such as fundamentalist preacher Leo Barnett, or a fanatic ‘prophet’ such as Nur al-Allah, would use for their own purposes.

  “Still, perhaps it’s not surprising that in the ancestral lands of the Mayans, there have been no less than a dozen plumed serpents over the years: images of Kukulcán himself. And here in Mexico, if those of Indian blood had final say, perhaps even the jokers would be well-treated, for the Mayans considered the deformed blessed by the gods. But those of Mayan descent don’t rule.

  “In Chichén Itzá, over fifty jokers were killed only a year ago.

  “Most of them (but not all) were followers of the new Mayan religion. These ruins were their place of worship. They thought that the virus was a sign to return to the old ways; they didn’t think of themselves as victims. The gods had twisted their bodies and rendered them different and holy.

  “Their religion was a throwback to a violent past. And because they were so different, they were feared. The locals of Spanish and European descent hated them. There was gossip concerning animal and even human sacrifice, of blood rites. It didn’t matter if any of it was actually true; it never does. They were different. Their own neighbors banded together to rid themselves of this passive threat. They were dr
agged screaming from the surrounding villages.

  “Bound, pleading for mercy, the jokers of Chichén Itzá were laid here. Their throats were slit in brutal parody of Mayan rites—splashing blood stained the carved serpents red. Their bodies were cast into the ball court below. Another atrocity, another ‘nat vs. joker’ incident. Old prejudices amplifying the new.

  “Still, what happened here—though horrible—is no worse than what has happened, is happening, to jokers at home. You who are reading this: You or someone you know has probably been guilty of the same prejudice that caused this massacre. We’re no less susceptible to the fear of the different.”

  Sara switched off the cassette recorder and laid it atop the serpent’s head. Squinting into the brilliant sun, she could see the main group of delegates near the Temple of the Bearded Man; behind, the pyramid of Kukulcán threw a long shadow over the grass.

  “A woman of such obvious compassion would keep an open mind, wouldn’t she?”

  Panic crawled her spine. Sara whirled about to see Senator Hartmann regarding her. It took a long moment to recover her composure. “You startled me, Senator. Where’s the rest of the entourage?”

  Hartmann smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry for sneaking up on you, Ms. Morgenstern. Scaring you wasn’t my intention, believe me. As for the others—I told Hiram that I had private business to discuss with you. He’s a good friend and helped me escape.” He grinned softly as if at some inner amusement. “I couldn’t quite get away from everyone. Billy Ray’s down below, being the dutiful bodyguard.”

  Sara frowned into that smile. She picked up her recorder, placed it in her purse. “I don’t think you and I have any ‘private business,’ Senator. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  She started to move past him toward the temple’s entrance. She thought for a moment that he might make some move to detain her; she tensed, but he stepped aside politely.

  “I meant what I said about compassion,” he commented just before she reached the stairs. “I know why you dislike me. I know why you look so familiar. Andrea was your sister.”

  The words battered Sara like fists. She gasped at the pain.

  “I also believe you’re a fair person,” Hartmann continued, and each word was another blow. “I think that if you were finally told the truth, you’d understand.”

  Sara gave a cry that was half-sob, unable to hold it back. She placed a hand on cool, rough stone and turned. The sympathy she saw in Hartmann’s eyes frightened her.

  “Just leave me alone, Senator.”

  “We’re stuck together on this trip, Ms. Morgenstern. There’s no sense in our being enemies, not when there isn’t any reason.”

  His voice was gentle and persuasive. He sounded kind. It would have been easier if he’d been accusatory, if he’d tried to bribe her or threaten her. Then she could have fought back easily, could have reveled in her fury. But Hartmann stood there, his hands at his sides, looking, of all things, sad. She’d imagined Hartmann many ways, but never like this. “How . . .” she began, and found her voice choked. “When did you find out about Andrea?”

  “After our conversation at the press reception, I had my aide Amy run a background check. She found that you’d been born in Cincinnati, that your family name was Whitman. You lived two streets over from me, on Thornview. Andrea was what, seven or eight years older than you? You look a lot like her, like she might have grown up to be.” He steepled his hands to his face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his forefingers. “I’m not very comfortable with lying or evasion, Ms. Morgenstern. That’s not my style. I don’t think you are either, not from the blunt articles you’ve written. I think I know why we’ve been at odds, and I also know it’s a mistake.”

  “Which means that you think it’s my fault.”

  “I’ve never attacked you in print.”

  “I don’t lie in my articles, Senator. They’re fair. If you have a problem with any of my facts, let me know and I’ll give you verification.”

  “Ms. Morgenstern—” Hartmann began, a trace of irritation in his voice. Then, oddly, he leaned his head back and chuckled loudly. “God, there we go again,” he said, and he sighed. “Really, I read your articles. I don’t always agree with you, but I’ll be the first to admit that they’re well written and researched. I even think that I could like the person who wrote them, if ever we had the chance to talk and know each other.” His gray-blue eyes caught hers. “What’s between us is the ghost of your sister.”

  His last words took the breath from her. She couldn’t believe that he’d said them; not so casually, not with that innocent smile, not after all those years. “You killed her,” she breathed, and didn’t realize that she’d spoken the words aloud until she saw the shock on Hartmann’s face. He went white for an instant. His mouth opened, then clamped shut. He shook his head.

  “You can’t believe that,” he said. “Roger Pellman killed her. There was no question at all about that. The poor retarded kid . . .” Hartmann shook his head. “How can I say it gently? He came out of the woods naked and howling like all the demons of hell were after him. Andrea’s blood covered him. He admitted killing her.”

  Hartmann’s face was still pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his gaze was withdrawn. “Damnit, I was there, Ms. Morgenstern. I was standing outside in my front yard when Pellman came running up the street, gibbering. He ran into his house, the neighbors all around watching. We all heard his mother scream. Then the cops came, first to the Pellmans’, then taking Roger into the woods with them. I saw them carry out the wrapped body. My mom had her arms around your mother. She was hysterical, wailing. It infected all of us. We were all crying, all of the kids, even though we really didn’t understand what was going on. They handcuffed Roger, hauled him away. . . .”

  Sara stared, bewildered, at Hartmann’s haunted face. His hands were clenched into fists at his side. “How can you say I killed her?” he asked softly. “Don’t you realize that I was in love with her, as infatuated as an eleven-year-old kid can be. I would never have done anything to hurt Andrea. I had nightmares for months afterward. I was furious when they assigned Roger Pellman to Longview Psychiatric. I wanted him to hang for what he’d done; I wanted to be the one to pull the damn switch on him.”

  It can’t be. The insistent denial pounded in her head. Yet she looked at Hartmann and knew, somehow, that she was wrong. Doubt had begun to dampen some of the fiery hatred. “Succubus,” she said, and found her throat dry. She licked her lips. “You were there, and she had Andrea’s face.”

  Hartmann took a gulping, deep breath. He looked away from her for a moment, toward the northern temple. Sara followed his gaze and saw that the tour group from the Stacked Deck had gone inside. The ball court was deserted, quiet. “I knew Succubus,” Hartmann said at last, still looking away from her, and she could feel the trembling emotion in his voice. “I knew her at the end of her public career, and we still saw each other occasionally. I wasn’t married then, and Succubus . . .” He turned around to Sara, and she was surprised to see his eyes bright with moisture. “Succubus could be anyone, you know. She was anyone’s ideal lover. When she was with you, she was exactly what you wanted.”

  In that instant Sara knew what he was going to say. She had already begun to shake her head in denial.

  “For me, quite often,” Hartmann continued, “she was Andrea. You were right, you know, when you said we’re both obsessed. We’re obsessed by Andrea and her death. If that hadn’t happened, I might have forgotten my crush on her six months later, like every pubescent fantasy. But what Roger Pellman did engraved Andrea in my mind. Succubus—she roamed in your head and used what she found there. Inside me, she found Andrea. So when she saw me during the riot, when she wanted me to save her from the violence of the mob, she took the face she had always shown to me: Andrea’s.

  “I didn’t kill your sister, Ms. Morgenstern. I’ll plead guilty to thinking of her as my fantasy lover, but that’s all. Your sister was an ideal for
me. I wouldn’t have harmed her at all. I couldn’t.”

  It can’t be.

  Sara remembered all the strange links she’d found in the months after she’d first seen the videotape of Succubus’s death. Sara had thought that she’d escaped the cloying Andrea-worship of her parents, that she’d left her murdered sister behind her for the rest of her life. Succubus’s face had shattered all that. Even after she’d shakily written the article that would eventually win her the Pulitzer, she’d thought it had been a mistake, a cruel trick of fate. But Hartmann had been there. She’d known all along that the Senator was from Ohio. She discovered later that not only was he from Cincinnati, but he’d lived nearby, been a classmate of Andrea’s. She’d done more research, suddenly suspicious. Mysterious deaths and violent acts seemed to plague Hartmann: in law school, as a New York City councilman, as mayor, as senator. None of them were ever Hartmann’s fault. There was always someone else, someone with motive and desire. But still . . .

  She dug further. She found that five-year-old Hartmann and his parents had been on vacation in New York the day Jetboy died and the virus was loosed on the unsuspecting world. They’d been among the lucky ones. None of them had ever shown any signs of having been infected. Still, if Hartmann were a hidden ace, “up the sleeve” in the vernacular . . .

  It was circumstantial. It was flimsy. Her reporter’s instinct had screamed “Objectivity!” at her emotions. That hadn’t stopped her from hating him. There was always that gut feeling, the certainty that he was the one. Not Roger Pellman, not the others who had been convicted, but Hartmann.

  For the last nine years or more she’d believed that.

  Yet Hartmann didn’t seem dangerous or malign now. He stood there patiently—a plain face, a high forehead threatening to recede and sweating from the fierce sun, a body soft around the waist from years of sitting behind administrative desks. He let her stare, let her search his gaze unflinchingly. Sara found that she couldn’t imagine him killing or hurting. A person who enjoyed pain in the way she’d imagined would show it somewhere: in his body language, his eyes, his voice. There was none of it in Hartmann. He had a presence, yes, a charisma, but he didn’t feel dangerous.