Wild Cards IV: Aces Abroad

by Stephen Leigh

  It was with distinct relief that she saw the clinic ahead and half ran to its open door.

  The place hadn’t changed since yesterday when the press corps had visited. It was a crowded, chaotic lunacy. The clinic smelled vile, a combination of antiseptics, disease, and human waste. The floors were filthy, the equipment antiquated, the beds mere cots packed together as closely as possible. Tachyon had howled at the appearance, then had immediately thrown himself into the fray.

  He was still there, looking as if he’d never left. “Boatarde, Ms. Morgenstern,” he said. His satin jacket missing, his shirt-sleeves rolled halfway up his lanky arms, he was drawing a blood sample from a comatose young girl whose skin was scaled like a lizard’s. “Did you come to work or watch?”

  “I thought it was a samba club.”

  That gained her a small, weary smile. “They can use help in back,” he said. “Felicidades.” Sara waved to Tachyon and slid between the rows of cots. Near the rear of the clinic she halted in surprise, frowning. Her breath caught.

  Gregg Hartmann was crouched beside one of the cots. A joker sat there, bristling with stiff, barbed quills like those of a porcupine. A distinct animal musk came from the man. The Senator, in hospital blues, was carefully cleaning a wound on the joker’s upper arm. Despite the odor, despite the patient’s appearance, Sara could see only concern on his face as he worked. Hartmann saw Sara and smiled. “Ms. Morgenstern. Hello.”

  “Senator.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need to be so damn formal. It’s Gregg. Please.” She could see fatigue in the lines around his eyes, in the huskiness of his voice; he’d evidently been here for some time. Since Mexico, Sara had avoided situations that might leave the two of them alone. But she’d watched him, wishing she could sort out her feelings, wishing that she didn’t feel a confused liking for the man. She’d observed how he interacted with others, how he responded to them, and she wondered. Her mind told her that she may have misjudged him; her emotions tore her in two directions at once.

  He was looking at her, patient and genial. She ran her hand through her short hair and nodded. “Gregg, then. And I’m Sara. Tachyon sent me back here.”

  “Great. This is Mariu, who was on the wrong end of somebody’s knife.” Gregg indicated the joker, who stared at Sara with unblinking, feral intensity. His pupils were reddish, and his lips were drawn back in a snarl. The joker said nothing, either unwilling or unable to talk.

  “I guess I should find something to do.” Sara looked around, wanting to leave.

  “I could use an extra pair of hands with Mariu here.”

  No, she wanted to say. I don’t want to know you. I don’t want to have to say I was wrong. Belatedly Sara shook her head. “Umm, okay. Sure. What do you want me to do?”

  They worked together silently. The wound had been stitched earlier. Gregg cleaned it gently as Sara held the prickly barbs away. He smeared antibiotic ointment on the long wound, pressed gauze to it. Sara noticed most that his touch was gentle, if clumsy. He bound the dressing and stepped back. “Okay, you’re done, Mariu.” Gregg patted the joker carefully on the shoulder. The spiny face nodded slightly, then Mariu padded away without a word. Sara found Gregg looking at her, sweating in the heat of the clinic. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She took a step back from him, uncomfortable. “You did a good job with Mariu.”

  Gregg laughed. He held out his hands, and Sara saw angry red scratches scattered over them. “Mariu gave me lots of problems until you showed up. I’m strictly amateur help here. We made a good team, though. Tachyon wanted me to unload supplies; want to give me a hand with that?”

  There wasn’t a graceful way to say no. They worked in silence for a time, restocking shelves. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” Sara commented as they wrestled a packing crate into a storage room.

  Sara saw that he noted her unspoken words and hadn’t taken offense. “Without making sure a video camera was recording my good works, you mean?” he said, smiling. “Ellen was out shopping with Peregrine. John and Amy had a stack of paperwork this big they wanted me to tackle.” Gregg held his hands two feet apart. “Coming here seemed a lot more useful. Besides, Tachyon’s dedication can give you a guilt complex. I left a note for Security saying I was ‘going out.’ I imagine Billy Ray’s probably having a fit by now. Promise not to tell on me?”

  His face was so innocently mischievous that she had to laugh with him. With the laughter a little more of the brittle hatred flaked away. “You’re a constant surprise, Senator.”

  “Gregg, remember?” Softly.

  “Sorry.” Her smile faded. For a moment she felt a strong pull to him. She forced the feeling down, denied it. It’s not what you want to feel. It’s not real. If anything, it’s a backlash reaction for having detested him for so long. She looked around at the barren, dusty shelves of the storeroom and viciously tore open the carton.

  She could feel his eyes watching her. “You still don’t believe what I said about Andrea.” His voice wavered halfway between statement and question. His words, so close to what she’d been thinking, brought sudden heat to her face.

  “I’m not sure about anything.”

  “And you still hate me.”

  “No,” she said. She pulled Styrofoam packing from the box. And then, with sudden, impulsive honesty: “To me that’s probably more scary.”

  The admission left her feeling vulnerable and open. Sara was glad that she couldn’t see his face. She cursed herself for the confession. It implied attraction for Gregg; it suggested that, far from hating him, she’d come nearly full circle in her feelings, and that was simply something she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. Not until she was certain.

  The atmosphere between them was charged with tension. She searched for some way to blunt the effect. Gregg could wound her with a word, could make her bleed with a look.

  What Gregg did then made Sara wish that she’d never seen Andrea’s face on Succubus, that she hadn’t spent years loathing the man.

  He did nothing.

  He reached over her shoulder and handed her a box of sterile bandages. “I think they go on the top shelf,” he said.

  “I think they go on the top shelf.”

  Puppetman was screaming inside him, battering at the mindbars that held him in. The power ached to be loose, to tear into Sara’s opened mind and feed there. The hatred that had rebuffed him in New York was gone, and he could see Sara’s affection; he tasted it, like blood-salt. Radiant, warm vermilion.

  So easy, Puppetman moaned. It would be easy. It’s rich, full. We could make that an overwhelming tide. You could take her here. She would beg you for release, she would give you whatever you asked of her—pain, submission, anything, Please . . .

  Gregg could barely hold back the power. He’d never felt it so needy, so frantic. He’d known this would be the danger of the trip. Puppetman, that power inside him, would have to feed, and Puppetman only fed on torment and suffering, all the black-red and angry emotions. In New York and Washington it was easy. There were always puppets there, minds he’d found and opened so that he could use them later. Cattle, fodder for the power. There it was easy to slip away unseen, to stalk carefully and then pounce.

  Not here. Not on this trip. Absences were conspicuous and needed explanations. He had to be cautious; he had to let the power go hungry. He was used to feeding weekly; since the plane had left New York, he’d managed to feed only once: in Guatemala. Too long ago.

  Puppetman was famished. His need could not be held back much longer.

  Later, Gregg pleaded. Remember Mariu? Remember the rich potency we saw in him? We touched him, we opened him. Reach out now—see, you can still feel him, only a block away. A few hours and we feed. But not with Sara. I wouldn’t let you have Andrea or Succubus; I won’t let you have Sara.

  Do you think she’d love you if she knew? Puppetman mocked. Do you think she’d still feel affection if you told her? You think she would embrace you,
kiss you, let you enter her warmth? If you really want her to love you for yourself, then tell her everything.

  Shut up! Gregg screamed back. Shut up! You can have Mariu. Sara is mine.

  He forced the power back down. He made himself smile. It was three hours before he found an excuse to leave; he was pleased when Sara decided to stay at the clinic. Shaking from the exertion of keeping Puppetman inside, he went into the night streets.

  Santa Theresa, like Jokertown, was alive at night, still vibrant with dark life. Rio herself never seemed to sleep. He could look down into the city and see a deluge of lights flowing in the valleys between the sharp mountains and spilling halfway up the slopes. It was a sight to make one stop for a moment and ponder the small beauties that, unwittingly, a sprawling humanity had made.

  Gregg hardly noticed it. The lashing power inside drove him. Mariu. Feel him. Find him.

  The joker who had brought in the bleeding Mariu had spoken a little English. Gregg overheard the story he’d told Tachyon. Mariu was crazy, he said. Ever since Cara was nice to him, he’d been bothering her. Cara’s husband, João, he told Mariu to stay away, told him he was just a fucking joker. Said he’d kill Mariu if Mariu didn’t leave Cara alone. Mariu wouldn’t listen. He kept following Cara, scaring her. So João cut him.

  Gregg had offered to dress Mariu’s wound after Tachyon had stitched it up, feeling Puppetman yammering inside. He’d touched the loathsome Mariu, let the power open his mind to feel the raging boil of emotions. He’d known immediately—this would be the one.

  He could sense the emanations of the open mind at the edge of his range, perhaps a half mile away. He moved through narrow, twisting streets, still dressed in the blues. Some of his intensity must have shown for he wasn’t bothered. Once a crowd of children surrounded him, pulling at his pockets, but he’d looked at them and they’d gone silent, scattering into darkness. He’d moved on, closer to Mariu, until he saw the joker.

  Mariu was standing outside a ramshackle, three-story apartment building, watching a window on the second floor. Gregg felt the pulsing, black rage and knew Joõ was there. Mariu’s feelings for João were simple, bestial; those for Cara were more complex—a shifting, metallic respect; an azure affection laced through with veins of repressed lust. With his barbed skin Mariu had probably never had a willing lover, Gregg knew, but he could sense the fantasies in his mind. Now, please. Gregg took a shuddering breath. He let down the barriers. Puppetman laughed.

  He stroked the surface of Mariu’s mind possessively, cooing softly to himself. He removed the few restraints an uncaring society and church had put on Mariu. Yes, be angry, he whispered to Mariu. Be full of devout rage. He keeps you from her. He insulted you. He hurt you. Let the fury come, let it blind you until you see nothing but its burning heat. Mariu was moving restlessly in the street, his arms waving as if to some inner debate. Gregg watched as Puppetman amplified the frustration, the hurt, the anger, until Mariu screamed hoarsely and ran into the building. Gregg closed his eyes, leaning against a shadowed wall. Puppetman rode with Mariu, not seeing with Mariu’s eyes but feeling with him. He heard shouts in angry Portuguese, the splintering of wood, and suddenly the rage flared up higher than before.

  Puppetman was feeding now, taking sustenance from the rampant emotions. Mariu and Joao were struggling, for he could sense, deep underneath, a sensation of pain. He damped the pain down so Mariu would not notice it. The screams of a woman accompanied the shouts now, and from the twisting of Mariu’s mind, Gregg knew that Cara was there too. Puppetman increased Mariu’s anger until the glare of it nearly blinded him. He knew Mariu could feel nothing else now. The woman screamed louder; there was a distinct dull thud audible even in the street below. Gregg heard the sound of breaking glass and a wail: he opened his eyes to see a body strike the hood of a car and topple into the street. The body was bent at an obscene angle, the spine broken. Mariu was looking down from the window above.

  Yes, that was good. That was tasty. This will taste good as well.

  Puppetman let the rage slowly fade as Mariu ducked back inside. Now he toyed with the feelings for Cara. He diluted the binding respect, let the affection dim. You need her. You’ve always wanted her. You looked at those hidden breasts as she walked by and wondered how they would feel, all silken and warm. You wondered at the hidden place between her legs, how it would taste, how it would feel. You knew it would be hot, slick with desire. You’d stroke yourself at night and think of her writhing underneath you, moaning as you thrust.

  Now Puppetman turned derisive, mocking, modifying passion with the residue of Mariu’s anger. And you knew that she’d never want you, not looking the way you do, not the joker with the needled quills. No. Her body couldn’t be for you. She’d laugh about you, making coarse jokes. When João possessed her, he’d laugh and say, “This would never be Mariu; Mariu would never take pleasure from me.”

  Cara screamed. Gregg heard cloth tear and felt Mariu’s uncontrolled lust. He could imagine it. He could imagine him bearing her down roughly, uncaring that his barbs gouged her unprotected skin, looking only for release and imagined vengeance in the violent, agonizing rape.

  Enough, he thought, quietly. Let it be enough. But Puppetman only laughed, staying with Mariu until orgasm threw his mind into chaos. Then Puppetman, sated himself, withdrew. He laughed hilariously, letting Mariu’s emotions drop to normal, let the joker look in horror at what he’d done.

  Already there were more shouts from the building, and Gregg heard the sirens in the distance. He opened his eyes—gasping, blinking—and ran.

  Inside, Puppetman eased himself into his accustomed place and quietly let Gregg place the bars around him. Satisfied, he slept.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1986, SYRIA:

  Misha sat bolt upright, sweat-drenched from the dream. She had evidently cried out in fear, for Sayyid was struggling to sit up in his own bed.

  “Wallah, woman! What is it?” Sayyid was hewn from a heroic mold, fully ten foot tall and muscled like a god. In repose he was inspiring: a dark, Egyptian giant, a myth given life. Sayyid was the weapon in Nur al-Allah’s hands; terrorists such as al-Muezzin were the hidden blades. When Sayyid stood before the faithful, towering over all, they could see in Nur al-Allah’s general the visible symbol of Allah’s protection.

  In Sayyid’s keen mind were the strategies that had defeated the better-armed and supplied Israeli troops in the Golan Heights, when the world had thought Nur al-Allah and his followers hopelessly outnumbered. He had orchestrated the rioting in Damascus when al-Assad’s ruling Ba’th Party had tried to move away from Qu’ranic law, allowing the Nur sect to forge an alliance with the Sunni and Alawite sects. He craftily advised Nur al-Allah to send the faithful into Beirut when the Christian Druze leaders had threatened to overthrow the reigning Islamic party. When the Swarm Mother had sent her deadly offspring to Earth the year before, it was Sayyid who had protected Nur al-Allah and the faithful. In his mind was victory. For the jihad Allah had given Sayyid hikma, divine wisdom.

  It was a well-kept secret that Sayyid’s heroic appearance was also a curse. Nur al-Allah had decreed that jokers were sinners, branded by God. They had fallen from shari’a, the true path. They were destined to be slaves of the true faithful at best; at worst they would be exterminated. It would not have been wise for anyone to see that Nur al-Allah’s brilliant strategist was nearly a cripple, that Sayyid’s mighty, rippling thews could barely support the crushing weight of his body. While his height had doubled, his mass had increased nearly fourfold.

  Sayyid was always carefully posed. He moved slowly if at all. When he must go any distance, he rode.

  Men who had seen Sayyid in the baths whispered that he was as heroically proportioned everywhere. Misha alone knew that his manhood was as crippled as the rest of him. For the failure of his appearance Sayyid could only blame Allah, and he did not dare. For his inability to stay aroused more than a few moments, he blamed Misha. Tonight, as often, her body bore the livid bru
ises of his heavy fists. But at least the beatings were quick. There were times when she thought his awful, suffocating weight would never rise from her.

  “It is nothing,” she whispered. “A dream. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Sayyid rubbed at his eyes, staring groggily toward her. He had brought himself to a sitting position, and he panted from the effort. “A vision. Nur al-Allah has said—”

  “My brother needs his sleep, as does his general. Please.”

  “Why must you always oppose me, woman?” Sayyid frowned, and Misha knew that he remembered his earlier embarrassment, when in frustration he had battered her, as if he could find release in her pain. “Tell me,” he insisted. “I must know if it’s something to tell the prophet.”

  I am Kahina, she wanted to say. I’m the one Allah has gifted. Why must you be the one to decide whether to wake Najib? It was not your vision. But she held back the words, knowing that they led to more pain. “It was confused,” she told him. “I saw a man, a Russian by his dress, who handed Nur al-Allah many gifts. Then the Russian was gone, and another man—an American—came with more gifts and laid them at the prophet’s feet.” Misha licked dry lips, remembering the panic of the dream. “Then there was nothing but a feeling of terrible danger. He had gossamer strings knotted to his long fingers, and from each string dangled a person. One of his creatures came forward with a gift. The gift was for me, and yet I feared it, dreading to open the package. I ripped it open, and inside . . .” She shuddered. “I . . . I saw only myself. I know there was more to the dream, but I woke. Yet I know, I know the gift-bearer is coming. He will be here soon.”