Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

by George R. R. Martin

  The vision took over and Jayewardene felt all the air go out of him. He smelled the damp jungle. Heard birds singing and the far-away flap of helicopter rotors. The sun went behind a cloud. An ant crawled up his leg. He shut his eyes. Even through his closed lids the flash was magnesium bright. There was a single deafening boom of thunder. He jumped involuntarily, then waited a moment and opened his eyes.

  Through the white streak in his vision caused by the flash, he saw Tachyon kneeling next to a thin, naked, Caucasian man. Radha was stomping out small fires that had broken out in a circle around them.

  “How am I going to explain this to the Central Park Zoo?” asked Danforth, his expression dazed.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Jayewardene, moving slowly back down the mountainside toward Tachyon. “It sounds like great pub to me.”

  Tachyon helped the naked man to his feet. He was of average height with plain features. He moved his mouth but made no sound.

  “I think he’s come through it intact,” said Tachyon, getting his shoulder under the man’s armpit. “Thanks to you.”

  Jayewardene shook his head and pulled three identical envelopes out of his pants pocket. “What happened had to happen. When the military shows up, and they will, I want you to deliver these to them. Say they are from me. One goes to the president, one the Minister of State, the last to the Minister of the Interior. It is my letter of resignation.”

  Tachyon took the envelopes and tucked them away. “I see.”

  “As for me, I intend to make the pilgrimage to the top of Sri Pada. Perhaps it will help me achieve my goal. To be rid of these visions.” Jayewardene headed back toward the stone steps.

  “Mr. Jayewardene,” Tachyon said. “If your pilgrimage is not successful, I would be willing to do anything possible to help you. Perhaps try to put some mental damper to keep you out of touch with your ability. We leave tomorrow. I suspect your government will be glad to see us go. But you’d be more than welcome to come with us.”

  Jayewardene bowed and moved over toward Paula and Robyn.

  “Mr. Jayewardene,” Robyn said in a rasping voice. Her blond hair was tangled and matted with mud. Her clothes were in shreds. Jayewardene tried not to look. “Thank you for helping save me.”

  “You’re most welcome. But you should be gotten to a hospital as soon as possible. Just for observation.” He turned to Paula. “I plan to make the pilgrimage up the mountain now, if you’d like to come.”

  “I don’t know,” said Paula, looking down at Robyn.

  “Go ahead,” Robyn said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Paula smiled and looked back at Jayewardene. “I’d love to.”

  The multicolored neon reflects brokenly from the wet pavement. The Japanese are all around us, mostly men. They stare at Pere­grine, who has her beautiful, banded wings folded tight around her. She looks ahead, ignoring them.

  We have been walking a long way. My sides burn and my feet ache. She stops at an alleyway and turns to me. I nod. She walks slowly into the darkness. I follow, afraid of making a noise that will attract attention. I feel useless, like a shadow. Peregrine stretches her wings. They almost touch the cold stone on either side of the alleyway. She folds them back.

  A door opens and the alley is filled with light. A man steps out. He is thin, tall, with dark skin, almond eyes, and a high forehead. He cranes his head forward to look at us.

  “Fortunato?” she asks.

  Jayewardene crouched next to the dying embers of the campfire. A few other pilgrims sat wordlessly next to him. The vision had awakened him. Even here there was no escape. Although the pilgrimage was not officially complete until he returned home, he knew that the visions would continue. He was tainted with the wild card virus, perhaps tainted by the years he’d spent in foreign countries. Spiritual purity and completeness was impossible to attain. At least for the present.

  Paula came up behind him and put her hands lightly on his shoulders. “It’s beautiful up here, really.”

  The others around the campfire looked up at her suspiciously. Jayewardene guided her away. They stood at the edge of the peak, staring out into the dark mist down the mountain.

  “Each religion had its own belief about the footprint,” he said. “We believe it was made by Buddha. The Hindus say it was made by Shiva. Moslems argue that it is where Adam stood for a thousand years, atoning for the loss of paradise.”

  “Whoever it was, they had a big foot,” Paula said. “That print was three feet long.”

  The sun came up over the horizon, slowly bringing light to the swirling mists below them. Their shadows grew huge in the grayness. Jayewardene caught his breath. “The Specter of the Brocken,” he said, closing his eyes in prayer.

  “Wow,” said Paula. “I guess it’s my week for things giant.”

  Jayewardene opened his eyes and sighed. His fantasies about Paula had been as unrealistic as those about his hope of destroying his power through the pilgrimage. They were like two wheels in a clockwork whose teeth meshed but whose centers forever remained at a distance. “What you have seen is the rarest of wonders here. One can come here every day for a year and not witness what we have.”

  Paula yawned, then smiled weakly. “Sounds like it’s time to go down.”

  “Yes. It’s time.”

  Danforth and Paula met him at the airport. Danforth was shaved and in clean clothes, almost the same cocksure producer he’d met only a few days ago. Paula wore shorts and a tight, white T-shirt. She seemed ready to get on with her life. Jayewardene envied her.

  “How’s Miss Symmes?” he asked.

  Danforth rolled his eyes. “Well enough to have called her lawyer three times in the last twelve hours. I’m really in the soup now. I’ll be lucky to stay in the business at all.”

  “Offer her a five-picture deal and plenty of points,” said Jayewardene, cramming his entire knowledge of film jargon into one sentence.

  “Sign this guy up, Mr. D.” Paula grinned and took Jayewardene by the arm. “He might be able to get you out of some jams even I couldn’t.”

  Danforth stuck his thumbs through his belt loops and rocked back and forth. “That’s really not a bad idea. Not bad at all.” He took Jayewardene’s hand and shook it. “I really don’t know what we would have done without you.”

  “Gone right down the drain.” Paula gave Jayewardene a one-shoulder hug. “I guess this is where we have to say good-bye.”

  “Mr. Jayewardene.” A young government courier shouldered his way through the crowd to their side. He was breathing hard, but took time to straighten his uniform before handing Jayewardene an envelope. It bore the presidential seal.

  “Thank you,” he said, popping it open with his thumb. He read it silently.

  Paula leaned in to look, but the writing was Sinhalese. “What does it say?”

  “That my resignation has not been accepted and I am consid­ered to be on an extended leave of absence. Not exactly the safest thing he could have done, but much appreciated.” He bowed to Danforth and Paula. “I’ll look for the film when it comes out.”

  “King Pongo,” Danforth said. “It’ll be a monster hit for sure.”

  The plane was more crowded than he had expected. People had been wandering around since after takeoff, chatting, complaining, getting drunk. Peregrine was standing in the aisle, talking to the tall, blond man who’d been with her in in the bar. They were keep­ing their voices low, but Jayewardene could tell from the looks on their faces that it was not a pleasant conversation. Peregrine turned away from the man, took a deep breath, and walked over to Jayewardene.

  “May I sit next to you?” she asked. “I know everyone else on this plane. Some considerably better than I’d like.”

  “I’m flattered and delighted,” he said. And it was true. Her fea­tures and fragrance were beautiful but intimidating. Even to him.

  She smiled, her lips curving in an almost inhumanly attractive manner. “That man you and Tach saved. He’s sitting right over there.
” She indicated him with the arch of an eyebrow. “His name’s Jeremiah Strauss. Used to be a minor league ace named the Projec­tionist. I guess we’re all bozos on this bus. Ah, here he comes now.”

  Strauss wandered over, his hands clutching the backs of seats as he went. He was pale and afraid. “Mr. Jayewardene?” He said it as if he’d been practicing the pronunciation for the last ten minutes. “My name is Strauss. I’ve been told all that you did for me. And I want you to know that I never forget a favor. If you need a job when we get to New York, U Thant’s a friend of the family. We’ll work something out.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Strauss, but I would have done it in any case.” Jayewardene reached up and shook his hand.

  Strauss smiled, straightened his shoulders, and clutched his way back to his seat.

  “I’d say he’s going to need quite a while to readjust,” Peregrine said in a whisper. “Twenty-plus years is a lot to lose.”

  “I can only wish him a speedy recovery. It’s difficult to feel sorry for myself considering his circumstances.”

  “Feeling sorry for oneself is an inalienable right.” She yawned. “I can’t believe how much I’m sleeping. Should have time for a nice long nap before we get to Thailand. Do you mind if I use your shoulder?”

  “No. Please think of it as your own.” He looked out the window. “Australia. Then where?”

  She rested her head against him and closed her eyes. “Malaysia, Vietnam, Indonesia, New Zealand, Hong Kong, China, Japan. Fortunato.” She said the last word almost too quietly for him to hear. “I doubt we’ll be running into him.”

  “But you will.” He said it hoping to please her, but she looked at him as if she’d caught him going through her underwear.

  “You know this? You’ve had one of those visions about me?” Someone had obviously told her about his power.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I really have no control over them.” He looked back out the window, feeling ashamed.

  She rested her head back onto his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. Don’t worry. I’m sure Tach will be able to do something for you.”

  “I hope so.”

  She’d been asleep for over an hour. He’d eaten one-handed to keep from waking her up. The roast beef he’d had was like a ball of lead in his stomach. He knew he would survive Western food at least until they reached Japan. The air was a low rumble as it rushed by the plane’s metal skin. Peregrine breathed softly next to his ear. Jayewardene closed his eyes and prayed for dreamless sleep.

  DOWN IN THE DREAMTIME

  Edward Bryant

  Cordelia Chaisson had dreamed about the murder less frequently during the month past. It surprised her she still thought of it even that much; after all, she had seen far worse. Work consumed her; the job with Global Fun & Games sufficiently exhausted her days; laboring on the AIDS/WCV benefit to be held in May at Xavier Desmond’s Jokertown Funhouse took up much of the nights. Most evenings she went to sleep long after the eleven o’clock news. Five in the morning came all too early. There was little time for diversion.

  But there were still the occasional bad nights of dreaming:

  —Coming up out of the Fourteenth Street station, heels clicking smartly on the dirty concrete, traffic muttering down from above. Hearing the voice a few steps up at street level saying, “Just give us the purse, bitch!” Hesitating, then going ahead anyway. Fearing, but—

  She heard the second voice, the Aussie accent: “G’day, mates. Some problem here?”

  Cordelia emerged from the stairwell into the sweltering night. She saw the instant tableau of two unshaven white punks backing a middle-aged woman into the space between the short row of phone carrels and the plywood butt of a shuttered newsstand. The woman had tight hold of both a yapping black poodle and her handbag.

  Sun-burnt and rangy, the man Cordelia assumed was an Aussie faced down the two youths. He wore a sand-colored outfit that looked like a rougher, more authentic version of a Banana Repub­lic ensemble. There was a bright, well-cared-for knife in one hand.

  “A problem, sonny?” he repeated.

  “No, no problem, dick-head,” said one of the punks. He pulled out a short-barreled pistol from his jacket and shot the Aussie in the face.

  It simply happened too quickly for Cordelia to react. As the man fell to the sidewalk, the assailants ran. The woman with the poodle screamed, momentarily harmonizing with the cries of the dog.

  Cordelia ran to the man and knelt beside him. She felt for the pulse in his neck. Almost imperceptible. It was probably too late for CPR. She averted her gaze from the blood pooling beneath the man’s head. The hot metallic smell of blood nauseated her. A siren wailed up the scale less than a block away.

  “I’ve still got my purse!” the woman cried.

  The man’s face twitched. He died. “Shit,” said Cordelia softly, helplessly. There wasn’t a damned thing she could do.

  Some kind of trouble now, Cordelia thought, as a dark-suited man she didn’t recognize waved her into one of GF&G’s executive offices. Deep shit, maybe. The two women standing by the desk examined a stack of printouts. Red-haired and tough, Polly Rettig was marketing chief for the GF&G satellite service. She was Cordelia’s immediate boss. The other woman was Luz Alcala, vice president for programming and Rettig’s boss. Neither Rettig nor Alcala smiled as they usually did. The man in black stepped back by the door and stood there with his arms folded. Security? Cordelia speculated. “Good morning, Cordelia,” Rettig said. “Please have a seat. We’ll be with you in just a moment.” She turned her attention back to Alcala and pointed out something on the sheet in her hand.

  Luz Alcala slowly nodded. “Either we buy it first, or we’re dead in the water. Maybe hire someone good—”

  “Don’t even think it,” said Rettig, frowning slightly.

  “It might become necessary,” Alcala said. “He’s dangerous.”

  Cordelia tried to keep the bewildered look off her face.

  “He’s also too powerful.” Folding her hands, Rettig turned toward Cordelia. “Tell me what you know about Australia.”

  “I’ve seen everything Peter Weir ever directed,” Cordelia said, momentarily hesitating. What was going on here?

  “You’ve never been there?”

  “New York is the farthest I’ve ever been from home.” Home was Atelier Parish, Louisiana. Home was a place she’d rather not think about. In most respects it didn’t exist.

  Rettig was looking at Alcala. “What do you think?”

  “I think yes.” The older woman picked up a thick envelope and handed it across the desk to Cordelia. “Open it, please.” She found a passport, a sheaf of airline tickets, an American Express card, and a hefty folder of traveler’s checks. “You’ll need to sign those.” Alcala indicated the checks and the credit card.

  Cordelia looked silently up from the smiling image affixed to the first page of the passport. “Nice photo,” she said. “I don’t remember applying.”

  “There was little time,” said Polly Rettig apologetically. “We took liberties.”

  “The point is,” said Alcala, “you’re leaving this afternoon for the other side of the world.”

  Cordelia felt stunned, then recognized the excitement growing. “All the way to Australia?”

  “Commercial flight,” said Alcala. “Brief stops for fuel in L.A., Honolulu, and Auckland. In Sydney you’ll catch an Ansett flight to Melbourne and another plane up to Alice Springs. Then you’ll rent a Land-Rover and drive to Madhi Gap. You’re going to have a full day,” she added dryly.

  A thousand things crowded into Cordelia’s mind. “But what about my job here? And I can’t just abandon the benefit—I want to go to New Jersey this weekend to check out Buddy Holley.”

  “He can wait till you’re back. The whole benefit can wait,” said Rettig firmly. “PR is fine, but the JADL and the Manhattan AIDS Project don’t pay your salary. This is Global Fun & Games business.”

  “But—”

 
“It is important.” Voice smoothly modulated, Alcala made it sound like a pronouncement.

  “But what is it?” She felt as if she were listening to Auntie Alice on Radio Wonderland. “What’s all this about?”

  Alcala seemed to be picking her words carefully. “You’ve seen the PR flacking GF&G’s plan to inaugurate a worldwide entertain­ment service via satellite.”

  Cordelia nodded. “I thought that was years down the road.”

  “It was. The only thing holding back the plan was the investment capital.”

  “We’ve got the money,” Rettig said. “We have the help of allied investors. Now we need the satellite time and the ground stations to pipe our programming down to the earth.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Alcala, “we have sudden competition for securing the services of the commercial facility in the telecommu­nications complex in Madhi Gap. A man named Leo Barnett.”

  “The TV evangelist?”

  Alcala nodded.

  “The ace-baiting, intolerant, psychotic, species-chauvinist son of a bitch,” said Rettig with sudden passion. “That TV evangelist. Fire-breather, some call him.”

  “And you’re sending me to Madhi Gap?” said Cordelia excitedly. Incredible, she thought. It was too good to be true. “Thank you! Thank you very much. I’ll do a terrific job.”

  Rettig and Alcala glanced at each other. “Hold on,” said Alcala. “You’re going along to assist, but you’re not going to be negotiating.”

  It was too good to be true. Shit, she thought.

  “Meet Mr. Carlucci,” said Alcala.

  “Marty,” said a nasal voice from behind Cordelia.

  “Mr. Carlucci,” Alcala repeated.

  Cordelia turned and took another, closer look at the man she had dismissed as some kind of hired help. Medium height, compact build, styled black hair. Carlucci smiled. He looked like a thug. An amiable one, but still a thug. His suit didn’t look as if it had come off the rack. Now that she looked more closely, the coat looked expensively tailored to a T.