Black Trump by George R. R. Martin
"You'll need to change, Zoe," Balthazar said. He handed over a plastic bucket filled with folded clothes.
"Did you pick these out?" Zoe asked.
"I did," Jan said. She finished layering charcoal into a little brazier, handed it to Croyd, and brushed her hands on her skirts. "Let's go wash up."
The river was a dark expanse of hushed water, held quiet by the Kehan dam. Jan tossed a bar of soap toward Zoe and matter-of-factly stripped out of her layers of clothes. Jan's breasts had budded but her hips were still narrow, her thighs thin and childish, pale in the moonlight reflected up from the river.
Balthazar and Croyd tended the fire, both of them pointedly looking in the other direction.
Zoe stripped out of her sedate georgette Carole Little, her Vasarette bra, and the last pair of Hanes Silk Reflections she expected to see in along time. She knelt and dipped her hand in the river. It was melted ice. "I can't!" Zoe yelped.
Jan laughed and waded in, standing knee-deep in the black river and sluicing up armfuls of water. So Zoe did. The soap smelled good. Zoe scrubbed at her skin until it roughened with goosebumps, and then the air felt warmer than it had and the prospect of getting into those awful clothes didn't seem quite so terrible.
"Aren't they the worst?" Jan asked. "I mean, I'm not into style, but these rags are to gag."
Ankle length cotton trousers printed with roses on white, like antique pajamas. Long black dresses with long sleeves. Zoe's was covered with printed bouquets of some strange flower. She couldn't see the colors well in the moonlight. She figured that was a blessing. Jan climbed back into her plain black cotton and layered her two short boleros over it.
Zoe bundled her clothes and climbed the rocky shore back to camp. Balthazar looked up and smiled. He was turning meat and skewered vegetables on the grill. Zoe pointed to her bare feet. "What about shoes?"
"Sneakers," Balthazar said. "You'll need to wrap your heads, both of you."
"Oh, sorry," Jan said. "I keep forgetting." She pulled a pair of voluminous headscarves out of the bottom of the bucket. "Which one you want, Zoe?"
"Just toss one over," Zoe said. It came sailing, stripes on black. She tried for the look she'd seen in port, folds of fabric puffed around the face and draped down one shoulder. The scarf was slick. She was never going to get the hang of this.
"What do we do with the clothes I took off?" Zoe asked.
Balthazar held out his hand. Zoe gave him the bundle. She watched meat sizzle on the brazier and tried not to watch while Balthazar folded a rock into the package and used her perfecdy good pair of pantyhose to knot it together. He walked away. She heard a splash.
About twenty yards from the bus, Croyd worked on getting a pop-up tent popped up. They were to set watches to make sure no one came near the bus. They were not to sleep in the bus unless they had no choice. It was part of the plan.
Balthazar went inside the bus and rummaged around before he came back to the fire. "Here," Balthazar said. "There's more that goes with your outfits, ladies."
He gave them each a dowry in gold jewelry, his hands spilling over with chains and coins and filigree work, earrings and bracelets and ankle bracelets.
Croyd finished with the tent and helped fasten Zoe into her cache, chain after chain after necklace, his fingers moving skillfully to fasten clasp after tiny clasp, while Balthazar tended the grill.
"It looks nice," Croyd said.
"I feel like a belly dancer," Zoe said. She felt exotic, earthy. Not because the clothes had beauty, for they certainly didn't. She felt costumed for primeval struggles, for feminine mysteries of dignity and power. Jan seemed to change before her eyes. No longer a gawky adolescent, she suddenly moved with the quiet grace of a woman. To keep the gold silent, Zoe realized. She knows instinctively that moving silently might save her life sometime. Poor baby.
They sat around the brazier and ate lamb skewered with vegetables and seasoned with fresh thyme and scatterings of some hot vinegary sauce that Balthazar pulled out of a hamper, all rolled in rounds of fluffy, thin bread.
Jan stayed close to Balthazar's side. She swung her bracelets at him and they shared a murmuring conversation in the dusk. Pheromones rose from them like a cloud. Jan's eyes glowed at a low intensity, not much more apparent than the simple gloss of young love. Zoe started to chide her for it, but the camp was sheltered between large boulders, out of sight of any other humans, and Croyd walked its perimeter like a nervous bloodhound.
Zoe felt like an intruder. Should she do anything to stop this? Balthazar wouldn't rape the child but he might have to tell her a definite "No" at some point. Zoe dreaded the storm of hurt feelings if that happened. This group couldn't afford hurt feelings.
Zoe jerked when sleep made her slump forward. And saw, as Croyd led her toward the tent where she would sleep and he would not, Jan bringing the caged doves out of the bus to sleep inside the tent. Beside Balthazar's bedroll, she bent from the waist in one of those impossible moves the young and limber can make, and kissed him. He reached up his arms to her and whispered something Zoe couldn't hear. Jan came inside with tears on her cheeks, smiling like a sunrise.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Harvest looked into the mirror, focusing on Ray's image, as he stood behind her. "Not now, Ray," she said flatly.
Ray had kissed the back of her neck, softly, fleetingly, holding her sweep of blond hair cupped in one hand. "What's the matter, babe? You've been sitting and staring into the mirror for over an hour now."
She stared longer. Just when Ray had given up all hope of her speaking, she did. "Did you know my father, Ray? My father or my mother?"
Ray frowned. "I don't think so. Should I have?"
"I should have. But they were killed in 1976 after the Jokertown Riots. They were killed by Twisted Fists avenging joker deaths in the riot. I was six years old. My father and mother had never hurt a joker. They'd never hurt anyone."
Ray didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry."
He didn't know what to do so he kissed the back of her neck again, then again, and again. He felt her shiver as his lips brushed a particularly sensitive spot.
"I can't stop thinking about them."
Ray didn't know if she meant her parents or the people they'd seen slaughtered in the pub.
"It's in the past, babe. You can't change it, why relive it?"
"Don't you ever think about the past?"
Ray shook his head. "Never. Only in dreams sometimes."
"Can you make me forget?"
He slid a hand down her chest, inside her blouse. Underneath she wore only a silk teddy over her bare breasts. He cupped one. It was firm and warm to his touch. He felt her nipple stiffen as he rubbed it.
She sighed, shifted in her chair. Ray moved his other hand to a silk-clad thigh. She opened her legs, giving him better access. Her head slipped back, she found her mouth with his. Her mouth was as sweet as the rest of her body. She sighed into his mouth, and the doorbell rang.
"Damn," she said, almost biting Ray's tongue. She stood up, pulling away from Ray and straightening her clothes. "Come in," she said aloud.
Damn, Ray thought, wasn't the word for it. He stared narrow-eyed at the door as Flint, stooping to get in under the lintel, ponderously entered the room.
"Good evening," he said in his customary whisper.
"It was going to be," Ray muttered.
"What can we do for you?" Harvest asked, silencing Ray with a glance.
"Sir Winston has requested Agent Ray's presence for a private interview," Flint said.
"Churchill?" Ray asked.
"We don't know any other Sir Winstons," Harvest said impatiently. "What does he want?"
There was a grinding sound as Flint shrugged his massive shoulders. "I imagine it's private."
"I see. All right. If you'll just excuse us for a moment, Captain."
Flint bowed decorously. "Certainly," he said, and navigated through the doorway, pulling the door shut after him.
"What do
Ray shrugged. "You're asking me? Maybe he knows something. Maybe he wants to stir things up. Churchill is England's most powerful wild carder. Oh, sure, Flint stomps around looking grim and whispering like a goddamned ghost, but Cnurchill knows how to get things done."
"Remember what the President said," Harvest reminded him. "Don't mention the Trump."
Ray hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe I should. Everybody's waltzing around like this is some kind of picnic. Well, it's not. Maybe it's time to light fires underneath some butts."
Harvest frowned. "President Barnett said to keep it a secret."
"President Barnett's not here."
"I could order you to keep quiet."
Ray grinned. "You could."
Harvest stared at him. "Okay. Do what you think is best."
"I always do."
"But you better be right on this."
He kissed her, quickly. She seemed unenthusiastic. Ray hoped he could relight the fire under her butt after his meeting with the geezer was over. "Ever know me to be wrong?"
"Hmmmmm."
Flint was waiting in the hallway outside. Ray followed him to the elevator where the British ace punched for the top floor. Two men were waiting for them when the elevator finished its trip. One was huge, though not as mountainous as Flint. He stood nearly six six and his turban made him look even taller. His chest was deep, his shoulders broad. He had a full, flowing beard and carried a long knife in a jeweled sheath. The other man was taller than Ray, but he looked small in comparison to his companion. He was lean and quiet in a menacing sort of way.
"These are two of my best men from the Silver Helix," Flint said. "Rangit Singh - the Lion."
"I have heard of you, of course." Singh spoke with a British accent. "Someday we shall perhaps test each other." He flexed his huge hands and grinned broadly.
"Yeah, sure," Ray said. "When my dance card's not so full."
"And this," Flint said, indicating the other agent, "is Bond, James Bond."
Ray looked at him and frowned. "You're kidding?"
"No, he's not bloody kidding." Bond, James Bond seemed aggravated. It seemed to be his habitual state. "So my parents had a bloody sense of humor, didn't they? Could I help that?" he asked aggressively.
Ray shook his head as Flint knocked on the door to Churchill's suite. "Nope."
"Come," Churchill called.
Ray followed Flint into the room. He turned at the last moment and looked at Bond. "I'll let you know when SPECTRE shows up," he said, then closed the door.
The room was posh, elegant, and dimly lit. It also stank of cigar smoke. Expensive cigar smoke, but stinking cigar smoke nonetheless. Churchill was sitting behind an antique desk, smoking. He wore the same outfit he'd worn the night before. He struggled to his feet as Ray approached, and leaned on a cane as he offered the agent his ancient hand.
It was spotted with age and shrunken down to nothing but bone and sinew, but the oldster still had surprising strength in his grip as he took Ray's hand. Ray was careful not to squeeze, afraid that he would crumble the bones to dust.
Churchill leaned forward, aggressively on his black, silver-handled cane, his face wreathed in puffs of cigar smoke.
"Sit down, sir," he rasped at Ray, waving in the general direction of the chair across the desk from him. He waited until Ray had taken the seat, then plumped down with a satisfied "Oooomph" in his own chair. He stuck a finger inside his tight collar and tugged.
"Getting too old for this nonsense."
"Yes, sir."
Churchill's eyes were those of an ancient reptile, cold and unreadable.
"Too old to waste time, entirely too old," he said after a long, uncomfortable silence.
"Yes, sir," Ray replied, wondering what the old fart expected him to say.
"So what's this I hear about a Black Trump?" Churchill barked.
Ray sat back in his chair. Not a cagey person at the best of times, Ray was totally bewildered by the unexpected question.
"Who told you about that?" he blurted.
"Hartmann did when I spoke to him last. Before that nasty business at the gate."
Ray nodded. There was the sound of geologic movement behind him and a huge shadow suddenly engulfed his chair.
"What's this Black Trump?" Flint asked.
"A killer virus, Brigadier, created by the Card Sharks and aimed at killing all wild carders. Gregg Hartmann told me all about it. I was satisfied that he told me the truth." Ray felt Churchill's eyes bore into his, and found himself nodding. He didn't know if it was an ace power, or simply the force of the politician's will that made him spill the secret. "What exactly do you know about it?"
Ray wet his lips. There was no percentage now, he thought, in holding back. "I saw it. I saw it in action - "
Churchill leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Ray, his face wreathed in smoke.
Ray stopped suddenly, and looked around.
"What's that sound?" he asked, and the world exploded around them.
The room's windows shattered in a blast of automatic rifle fire as Ray hurled himself, chair and all, backward. He twisted his head and saw a helicopter hovering outside the ruined window. The blades were muffled, but Ray had nonetheless heard the silenced whup-whup-whup of the chopper's approach. In a nice bit of flying, the pilot held the chopper a steady three feet from the blown-out windows, and the man in black who had shattered the panes with a burst of gunfire leapt from the chopper's belly into the room. He hit the carpet, rolled, and came up shooting.
"Noooooooo!"
Flint's whisper notched up into an agonized roar as he took a slow-motion step toward Churchill. Before he could get into place Ray lifted and threw his chair, smashing the gunman in the chest and knocking him backward as two others leapt daringly into the room. The door flew open and the Helix agents joined the action.
Ray glanced toward the desk. Churchill was down, out of sight. Two of the gunmen were shooting fruitlessly at Flint. Their bullets ricocheted off his body, striking sparks. The first gunman was dazed by the impact of Ray's chair. He staggered around the room, toward the British agents.
Flint held up his right hand and snapped his fingers with a sudden, popping sound. One of the gunmen staggered as a blossom of blood sprouted on his chest. He fell as Flint snapped his fingers again. The second gunman collapsed, his right eye gone.
Ray looked out the window. The chopper was still hovering. Ray locked eyes with the pilot.
"Goddamn," he said. It was General MacArthur Johnson. The first gunman lifted his weapon, but he was too close to Singh. The ace roared like a lion - Ray wondered if that was how he'd gotten his name - grabbed the gunman by shoulder and crotch and hurled him out the window, right at the chopper. The human projectile screamed as he few through the air and struck the glass bubble of the chopper's canopy. He bounced off, leaving a smear of blood on the canopy, and screamed all the way to the ground. Johnson fought the controls for a moment, then smiled at Ray, gave him the finger, and flew away into the night.
Ray tensed, standing in the shattered window frame, then something told him, no, don't do it. No chance. He pulled himself back from the edge and turned back into the room.
The other gunmen were dead. Flint had shot them with bits of his own fingers, deadly as any stone arrowhead. Flint was turning back toward Churchill. Ray moved quickly and smoothly around him.
He knelt by the fallen man. Churchill had been stitched across the chest. His beautiful smoking jacket was torn and bloody, as was the flesh under it. His eyes focused on Ray. His lips moved, but Ray couldn't hear what he was trying to say. He gathered the ancient, shattered body into his arms and put his ears close to Churchill's mouth.
"What is it, sir?"
"Ge ..." Churchill said. "Ge ... Gen ... er ... al."
"I know, sir," Ray nodded. "Try to rest. The doctor - "
Ray put his lips together and frowned. Churchill was gone. Ray looked up at Flint, loom
Ray shook his head, all insouciance drained from him. "He's dead."
"What did he say?" Flint asked.
Ray shook his head. "Tried to tell me that General MacArthur Johnson was responsible for the attack. But I'd already recognized the bastard piloting the chopper."
"My God," Flint said heavily. "What will we all do now?"
Ray had no answer for the stricken ace.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
"Dr. Meadows?" O. K. Casaday's voice called from the lab's far end.
Mark looked up from the workstation, on which he was trying to unravel the intricacies of WordPerfect 6.0. It was lunchtime. Jarnavon and the quietly helpful platoon of lab-coated technicians, Asian and Occidental, who acted as interface between Mark and the array of still largely mysterious equipment were nowhere to be seen.
"Take a break," Casaday said. "Give the eyebones a rest."
The CIA man was not in the habit of offering idle invitations. Mark figured that, had he been a real hero - like Mel Gibson in those movies he tried not to watch - he'd come zapping back with some cleverly defiant banter. Of course, the result would still be the same: Casaday had a gun, an army of heavily armed guerrillas at his beck and call, and Mark's only daughter as hostage; he would get his way. But he'd know what was what.
What really was what was that Mark was no hero, not without his friends. He was tired, scared, and utterly over his head. He stood up and nodded. "Okay."
They walked outside. The clouds were piling up over the mountains to the east, day by day. Monsoon was coming. But until the rains arrived there was nothing to mitigate the sun, which slammed down on Mark's head like a Stooge's frying pan when he stepped out into its domain.
The camp bustled with its usual activities - soldiers drilling, trucks moving back and forth between the compound and the poppy fields that paid the bills. Nearby an officer was instructing a group of what Mark took to be recruits in the fine points of shooting down government helicopters with American-made Stinger missiles.