Wild Cards

by George R. R. Martin

  “What is so mad about it? I'm young, many of these men are old. I'm preserving priceless knowledge.”

  “At the risk of your own sanity.”

  “You taught me—”

  “You're a human! You're not trained to handle the stress of high-level mentatics. The techniques I taught you in the hospital to keep your personality separate from your husband's were inadequate, nowhere near strong enough.”

  “Then teach me what I need to know. Or cure me.”

  The challenge brought him up short. “I can't . . . at least not yet. The virus is hellishly complex, working out a counter strain to nullify . . .” He shrugged. “To trump the wild card, if you will, may take me years. I'm one man working alone.”

  “Then I'll go back to Jack.” She picked up the case, and lurched toward the door. It was an oddly compelling mixture of dignity and farce as the heavy bag pulled her off balance. “And if I should go mad, perhaps Archibald will find me a good psychiatrist. After all, I am one of the Four Aces.”

  “Wait . . . you can't just go.”

  “Then you'll teach me?”

  He dug thumb and middle finger into the corners of his eyes, and gave the bridge of his nose a hard squeeze. “I'll try.” The case hit the floor, and she slowly approached him. He warded her off with his free hand. “One last thing. I'm not a saint, nor one of your human monks.” He gestured toward the curtained alcove that held his bed. “Someday I'll want you.”

  “So what's wrong with now?” She pushed aside the restraining hand, and molded her body to his. It was not a particularly lush body. In fact, it could have been described as meager, but any fault he might have found vanished as her hands cupped his face and pulled his lips down to meet hers.

  “A lovely day.” Tachyon sighed with satisfaction, scrubbed at his face with his hand, and stripped off his socks and underwear.

  Blythe smiled at him from the bathroom mirror where she stood creaming her face. “Any earth male who heard you say that would decide you were certifiably insane. A day spent in the company of an eight-year-old, a five-year-old, and a three-year-old is not held to be a high treat by most men.”

  “Your men are stupid.” He stared off into space, for a moment remembering the feel of sticky hands in his pockets as a bevy of tiny cousins searched for the treats he carried there, the press of a soft, plump baby cheek against his when he went away promising most faithfully to come again soon and play.

  He pushed back the past, and found her intently regarding him. “Homesick?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Homesick.”

  “Children are a joy and a delight,” he said hurriedly before she could reopen their ongoing argument. Picking up a brush, he pulled it through his long hair. “In fact, I've often wondered if yours aren't changlings or if you cuckolded old Henry from the beginning.”

  Six months ago, when Blythe had been thrown from the house, van Renssaeler had instructed the servants to refuse entrance to his estranged wife, thus barring her from her children. Tach had quickly remedied that situation. Every week, when they knew the representative was away from home, they went to the penthouse apartment, Tachyon mind-controlled the servants, and they'd spend several hours playing with Henry Jr., Brandon, and Fleur. He'd then instruct the nurse and housekeeper to forget the visit. It gave him great satisfaction to thumb his nose at the hated Henry, though for real vengeance the man should have been aware of their challenge to his authority.

  Tossing the brush aside, he gathered up the evening paper and crawled into bed. On the front page was a picture of Earl receiving a medal for having saved Gandhi. Jack and Holmes stood in the background, the older man looking smug, while Jack looked ill at ease. “Here's a picture from the banquet tonight,” he added. “But I still don't see why all the fuss. It was only an attempt.”

  “We don't share your callous attitude toward assassination.” Her voice was muffled by the folds of her flannel nightgown as she pulled it over her head.

  “I know, and it still seems strange.” He rolled over on his side propped up on one elbow. “Do you know that until I came to earth I had never gone anywhere without bodyguards?”

  The old bed squeaked a bit as she settled in. “That's terrible.”

  “We're accustomed to it. Assassination is a way of life among my class. It's how the families jockey for position. By the time I was twenty I had lost fourteen members of my immediate family to assassination.”

  “How immediate is immediate?”

  “My mother . . . I think. I was only four when she was found at the bottom of the stairs near the women's quarters. I've always suspected my Aunt Sabina was behind it, but there was no proof.”

  “Poor little boy.” Her hand cupped his cheek. “Do you remember her at all?”

  “Just flashes. The rustle of silk and lace and the smell of her perfume mostly. And her hair, like a golden cloud.”

  She rolled over and snuggled close, her buttocks pressing into his groin. “What else is so different between Takis and earth?” It was an obvious attempt to change the subject, and he was grateful to her. Talking about the family he had abandoned always made him sad and homesick.

  “Women, for one thing.”

  “Are we better or worse?”

  “Just different. You wander about free after you reach childbearing age. We would never allow that. A successful attack against a pregnant woman could wipe out years of careful planning.”

  “I think that's horrible too.”

  “We also don't equate sex with sin. A sin to us is casual reproduction which could upset the plan. But pleasure, now, that's another matter. For example, we take attractive young men and women from the lower class—the non-psi people—and train them to service the men and women of the great households.”

  “Don't you ever see the women of your own class?”

  “Of course. Until age thirty we grow up together, train and study together. It's only when a woman reaches childbearing years that she is secluded to keep her safe. And we still get together for family func- tions: balls, hunts, picnics, but all within the walls of the estate.”

  “How long are the little boys left with their mothers in the women's quarters?”

  “All children are left until they're thirteen.”

  “Do they ever see each other again?”

  “Of course, they're our mothers!”

  “Don't be defensive. It's just very alien to me.”

  “So to speak,” he said, snagging the gown and running his hand up her leg.

  “So you have sex toys,” she mused while his hands explored her body, and she fondled his stiffening penis. “Sounds like a nice idea.”

  “Want to be my sex toy?”

  “I thought I already was.”

  It was a chill that brought him awake. He sat up to find Blythe gone, and the covers trailing across the floor. He became aware of voices from beyond the beaded curtain. The wind was gusting about the building, setting up a keening howl as it sought out the cracks and crevices in the windows. The hair on the back of his neck was rising, but it had nothing to do with the cold. It was those deep guttural voices from behind the curtain, reminding him of children's boogy stories of unquiet ancestor ghosts possessing the living bodies of direct descendants. He shivered, and thrust through the beads. They fell tinkling behind him, and he saw Blythe standing in the center of the room carrying on a spirited argument with herself.

  “I tell you, Oppie, we must develop—”

  “No! We've been over this before, our first priority is the device. We can't be sidetracked with this hydrogen bomb right now.”

  For a long moment Tachyon stood frozen with horror. Such things had happened before, when she was tired or under stress, but never to such an extent. He knew he had to find her quickly if she was not to be lost, and he forced himself to move. In two strides he was at her side, gripping her close, reaching for her mind. And he almost retreated in terror, for inside was a nightmarish whirlpool of conflictin
g personalities, all battling for supremacy while Blythe spun helplessly in the center. He plunged toward her only to be blocked by Henry. Furiously Tachyon thrust him aside, and gathered her within the protective ward of his mind. The other six personalities orbited around them, fighting the ward. Blythe's strength combined with his, and they banished Teller to his compartment, and Oppenheimer to his; Einstein retreated mumbling while Salk just seemed bemused.

  Blythe slumped against him, and the sudden weight was too much for his exhausted body. His knees gave way, and he sat down hard on the wood floor, Blythe cradled in his lap. Out in the street he could hear the milkman making his deliveries, and he realized it had taken hours to restore her balance.

  “God damn you, Archibald,” he muttered, but it seemed inadequate, as inadequate as his ability to help.

  “You don't want to do that,” murmured David Harstein. Tach's hand froze. “The knight would be better.” The Takisian nodded, and quickly moved the chess piece. His jaw dropped as he contemplated the move.

  “You cheat! Why, you miserable cheat!”

  Harstein spread his hands in a helpless, placating gesture. “It was just a suggestion.” The young man's tone was soft and aggrieved, but his dark brown eyes were alight with amusement.

  Tachyon grunted, and wriggled back until he could lean against the sofa. “I find it rather alarming that a person of your position would stoop to using your gifts in such a despicable manner. You should be setting an example for the other aces.”

  David grinned, and reached for his drink. “That's the public face. Surely with my creator I can fall back into my lazy, bohemian ways.”

  “Don't.”

  There was a moment of strained silence while Tach stared inward at pictures he would rather forget, and David with elaborate concentration gave the pocket pegboard chess set an infinitesimal shift to the left.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “It's all right.” He gave the younger man a soothing smile. “Let's go on with the game.”

  David nodded, and bent his wiry dark head over the board. Tach took a sip of his Irish coffee, and allowed the warmth to fill his mouth before swallowing. He was ashamed of his overreaction to the teasing remark. After all, the boy had meant no harm.

  He had met David in the hospital in early 1947. On the Wild Card Day, Harstein had been playing chess at a sidewalk cafe. No symptoms had manifested themselves then, but months later he had been brought writhing and convulsing into the hospital. Tach had feared that this intense, handsome man would be yet another faceless victim, but against all expectations he had recovered. They had tested: David's body exuded powerful pheromones, pheromones that made him hard to resist on any level. He was recruited by Archibald Holmes, dubbed the Envoy by a fascinated press, and proceeded to use his awesome charisma to settle strikes, negotiate treaties, and mediate with world leaders.

  Of the other male Aces he was Tachyon's favorite, and under David's tutelage he had learned to play chess. It was a testimonial both to his own growing abilities and to David's teaching skills that he had resorted to his powers in an effort to keep the game from Tach. The alien smiled, and decided to repay the other man for his interference.

  He carefully sent out a probe, slipped beneath David's defenses, and watched as that fine mind weighed and evaluated possible moves. The decision was reached, but before Harstein could act upon it Tach gave a sharp twist, erasing the decision, and substituting another in its place.

  “Check.”

  David stared down at the board, then flipped it onto the floor with a howl while Tach climbed onto the couch, buried his head in a pillow, and laughed.

  “Talk about me cheating. I can't control my power, but you! Reach into a man's head and . . .”

  A key scraped in the lock, and Blythe called out, “Children, children, what are you battling about now?”

  “He cheats,” the two men called in chorus, pointing at one another.

  Tach gathered her into his arms. “You're freezing. Let me fix you some tea. How was the conference?”

  “Not bad.” She removed her fur hat, and shook snow from the silver-tipped ends. “With Werner down with the croup they were grateful to have my input.” She leaned forward, and pressed a soft kiss on David's darkly shadowed cheek. “Hello, dear, how was Russia?”

  “Bleak.” He began collecting the scattered chessmen. “You know, it doesn't seem fair.”

  “What?” Tossing her coat onto the sofa, she pulled off her muddy boots, and curled up against the pillows with her feet tucked snugly beneath the silver fox fur.

  “Earl gets to snatch Bormann out of Italy and save Gandhi from a Hindu fanatic, and you get to sit in a sleazy motel and attend a rocketry conference.”

  “They also serve who only sit and talk. As you should well know. Besides, you've gotten your fair share of the glory. What about Argentina?”

  “That was more than a year ago, and all I did was talk to the Perónists while Earl and Jack intimidated the jackboots in the street. Now, who do you think the press noticed? Us? Not likely. You've got to have flash to get noticed in this business.”

  “And just what is this business?” interjected Tachyon, pressing a mug of steaming tea into Blythe's hands.

  David hunched forward, his head thrusting out from his stooped shoulders like an inquisitive bird. “Salvaging something out of the disaster. Using these gifts to improve the human condition.”

  “That's how it starts, but will it end there? My experience with super-races—being a member of one myself—is that we take what we want, and the devil take anyone else. When a tiny minority of people on Takis began to develop mental powers, they quickly began interbreeding to make certain no one else would get a chance at the powers. It gave us a planet to rule, and we're only eight percent of the population.”

  “We'll be different.” Harstein's wry laugh made a mockery of the statement.

  “I hope so. But I'm more comforted by the knowledge that there are only a few dozen of you aces, and that Archibald hasn't welded all of you into this great force for Democracy.” His thin lips twisted a bit on the final words.

  Blythe reached out, and pushed his bangs off his forehead. “You disapprove?”

  “I worry.”

  “Why?”

  “I think you and David should be grateful that you're out of the public eye. The rage of the have-nots against the haves is never pretty, and your race has a tradition of suspicion and hostility toward the stranger. You aces are surpassing strange. What is it one of your holy books says? Suffer not the witch?”

  “But we're just people,” Blythe objected.

  “No, you're not . . . not anymore, and the others won't forget it. I know of thirty-seven of you, there may be more, and you're undetectable—not like the jokers. National hysteria is a particularly virulent and fast-growing weed. People are seeing Communists everywhere, and it probably wouldn't take much to transfer that distrust to some other terrifying minority—like an unseen, secret, awesomely powered group of people.”

  “I think you're overreacting.”

  “Am I? Take these HUAC hearings.” He gestured toward a pile of newspapers. “And two days ago a federal jury indicted Alger Hiss for perjury. These are not the actions of a sane and stable nation. And this during your month of joy and rebirth.”

  “No, that's Easter. This is the first birth.” David's weak joke sank into the heavy silence that washed through the room, broken only by the hiss of wind driven snow against the windows.

  Harstein sighed and stretched. “What a gloomy bunch we are. What say we get some dinner, and find a concert? Satchmo is playing uptown.”

  Tach shook his head. “I have to go back to the hospital.”

  “Now?” wailed Blythe.

  “My darling, I must.”

  “Then I'll go with you.”

  “No, that's silly. Let David take you to dinner.”

  “No.” Her lips had tightened into a mulish line. “If you won't let me help, I can
at least keep you company.”

  He sighed and rolled his eyes as she pulled on her boots.

  “Stubborn lady,” David remarked from beneath the coffee table, where he was scrabbling after the scattered chess pieces. “We've all discovered that it does no good to argue with her.”

  “You should try living with her.”

  The delicate pillbox hat warped beneath the sudden tightening of her fingers. “Believe me, we can solve that problem.”

  “Don't start,” Tach said warningly.

  “And don't take that disapproving-father tone with me! I'm not a child, nor one of your secluded Takisian ladies.”

  “If you were, you'd behave better; and as for being a child, you're certainly acting like one—and a spoiled one at that. We've had this discussion before, and I'm not going to do what you want.”

  “We have not had a discussion. You have constantly closed me off, changed the subject, refused to discuss the matter—”

  “I'm due at the hospital.” He started for the door.

  “You see?” she shot at the uncomfortable Harstein. “Has he cut me off, or has he cut me off?”

  The young man shrugged, and crammed the chess set into the pocket of his shapeless corduroy jacket. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

  “David, kindly take my genamiri to dinner, and try to return her to me in a somewhat better frame of mind.”

  Blythe cast Harstein a pleading look, while Tachyon stared with regal disdain at the far wall.

  “Hey, folks. I think you ought to take a nice romantic walk in the snow, talk things over, have a late supper, make love and quit bickering. Whatever it is, it can't be that big of a problem.”

  “You're right,” murmured Blythe, the rigidity passing from her body under the relaxing wash of pheromones.

  David placed a hand in Tach's back, and urged him out the door. Lifting Blythe's hand, he placed it firmly in Tachyon's, and made a vague gesture of benediction over their heads. “Now go, my children, and sin no more.” He followed them down the stairs and into the streets, then bolted for the subway before the pacifying effects of his power could wear off.