Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
There's a story, a legend almost, spread by those who marched on Selma in '65 during the voting rights crusade . . . that when the cops charged in with their tear gas, clubs, and dogs, and the marchers began to fall before the wave of white troopers, some of the marchers swore that they looked skyward and saw a man flying there, a straight black figure in a flying jacket and helmet, but that the man just hovered there and then was gone, unable to act, unable to decide whether the use of his powers would have aided his cause or worked against it. The magic hadn't come back, not even at such a pivotal moment, and after that there was nothing in his life but the chair in the cafe, the pipe, the paper, and the cerebral hemorrhage that finally took him into whatever it is that waits in the sky.
Every so often, I begin to wonder if it's over, if people have really forgotten. But aces are a part of life now, a part of the background, and the whole world is raised on ace mythology, on the story of the Four Aces and their betrayer. Everyone knows the Judas Ace, and what he looks like.
During one of my periods of optimism I found myself in New York on business. I went to Aces High, the restaurant in the Empire State Building where the new breed of ace hangs out. I was met at the door by Hiram, the ace who used to call himself Fatman until word of his real identity got out, and I could tell right away that he recognized me and that I was making a big mistake.
He was polite enough, I'll give him that, but his smile cost him a certain amount of effort. He seated me in a dark corner, where people wouldn't see me. I ordered a drink and the salmon steak.
When the plate came, the steak was surrounded with a neat circle of dimes. I counted them. Thirty pieces of silver.
I got up and left. I could feel Hiram's eyes on me the whole time. I never came back.
I couldn't blame him at all.
When I was making Tarzan, people were calling me well-preserved. After, when I was selling real estate and building developments, everyone told me how much the job must be agreeing with me. I looked so young.
If I look in the mirror now, I see the same young guy who was scuffling the New York streets going to auditions. Time hasn't added a line, hasn't changed me physically in any way. I'm fifty-five now, and I look twenty-two. Maybe I won't ever grow old.
I still feel like a rat. But I only did what my country told me.
Maybe I'll be the Judas Ace forever.
Sometimes I wonder about becoming an ace again, putting on a mask and costume so that no one will recognize me. Call myself Muscle Man or Beach Boy or Blond Giant or something. Go out and save the world, or at least a little piece of it.
But then I think, No. I had my time, and it's gone. And when I had the chance, I couldn't even save my own integrity. Or Earl. Or anybody.
I should have kept the dimes. I earned them, after all.
DEGRADATION RITES
by Melinda M. Snodgrass
A page of newsprint blew across the withered grass of the postage-stamp-sized park in Neuilly, and came to rest against the base of an bronze statue of Admiral D'Estaing. It flapped fitfully, like an exhausted animal pausing for breath; then the icy December wind caught it once more, and sent it skittering on its way.
The man who slumped on an iron bench in the center of the park eyed the approaching paper with the air of a person facing a monumental decision. Then, with the exaggerated care of the longtime drunk, he reached out with his foot and captured it.
As he bent down for the tattered scrap, a stream of red wine from the bottle nestled between his thighs poured down his leg. A string of curses, comprised of several different European languages, and punctuated every now and then by an odd, singsong word, poured from his lips. Capping the bottle, he mopped at the spreading stain with a large purple handkerchief, and collected the paper, the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune, and began to read. His pale lilac eyes flicked from column to column as he devoured the words.
J. Robert Oppenheimer has been charged with having Communist sympathies and with possible treason. Sources close to the Atomic Energy Commission confirm that steps are being taken to rescind his security clearance, and to remove him from the chairmanship of the commission.
Convulsively, the man crumpled the paper, leaned against the back of the bench, and closed his eyes.
“Damn them, God damn them all,” he whispered in English.
As if in answer his stomach let out a loud rumble. He frowned peevishly, and took a long pull at the cheap red wine. It flowed sourly over his tongue, and exploded with burning warmth in his empty stomach. The rumblings subsided, and he sighed.
A voluminous overcoat of pale peach adorned with enormous brass buttons and several shoulder capes was thrown over his shoulders like a cloak. Beneath this he wore a sky-blue jacket, and tight blue pants which were tucked into worn, knee-high leather boots. The vest was of darker blue than either coat or pants, embroidered with fanciful designs in gold and silver thread. All of the clothing was stained and wrinkled, and there were patches on his white silk shirt. A violin and bow lay next to him on the bench, and the instrument's case (pointedly open) was on the ground at his feet. A battered suitcase was shoved beneath the bench, and a red leather shoulder bag embossed in gold leaf with a frond, two moons and a star, and a slender scalpel arranged in graceful harmony in the center lay next to it.
The wind returned, rattling the branches of the trees and ruffling his tangled, shoulder-length curls. The hair and brows were a metallic red, and the stubble which shadowed his cheeks and chin was the same unusual shade. The page of newsprint fluttered beneath his hand, and he opened his eyes and regarded it. Curiosity won out over outrage, and with a snap he shook open the paper, and resumed.
BRAIN TRUST DIES
Blythe van Renssaeler, aka Brain Trust, died yesterday at the Wittier Sanatorium. A member of the infamous Four Aces, she was committed to the Wittier Sanatorium by her husband, Henry van Renssaeler, shortly after her appearance before the House Committee on Un-American Activities . . .
The print blurred as tears filled his eyes. Slowly the moisture gathered until one tear spilled over and ran swiftly down the bridge of his long, narrow nose. It hung ludicrously on the tip, but he made no move to brush it away. He was frozen, held in an awful stasis that had nothing to do with pain. That would come later; all he felt now was a great emptiness.
I should have known, should have sensed, he thought. He laid the paper on his knee, and gently stroked the article with one slender forefinger the way a man would caress the cheek of his lover. He noticed in a rather abstract way that there was more, facts about China, about Archibald, about the Four Aces, and the virus.
And all of it wrong! he thought savagely, and his hand tightened spasmodically on the page.
He quickly straightened the paper, and resumed his stroking. He wondered if her passing had been easy. If they had removed her from that grimy cubicle, and taken her to the hospital. . . .
The room stank of sweat and fear, and feces, and the sickly sweet odor of putrefaction, and over all floated the pungent scent of antiseptic. Much of the sweat and the fear was being generated by three young residents who huddled like lost sheep in the center of the ward. Against the south wall a screen shielded a bed from the rest of the patients, but it could not block the inhuman grunting sounds that emerged from behind this flimsy barrier.
Nearby, a middle-aged woman bent over her breviary reading the vespers service. A mother-of-pearl rosary hung from her thin fingers, and periodically drops of blood pattered on the pages. Each time it happened, her lips moved in quick prayer, and she would wipe away the gore. If her constant bleeding had been limited to a true stigmata she might have been canonized, but she bled from every available orifice. Blood ran from her ears, matting her hair and staining the shoulders of her gown, from mouth, nose, eyes, rectum . . . everywhere. A worn-out doctor had dubbed her Sister Mary Hemorrhage in the lounge one night, and the resultant hilarity could only be excused on grounds of mind-numbing exhaustion. Every health-care profe
Next was a once-handsome black man who floated in a saline bath. Two days ago he had started to shed again, and now only remnants of skin remained. His muscles gleamed raw and infected, and Tachyon had ordered he be treated like a burn victim. He had survived one such molting. It was questionable if he would survive another.
Tachyon was leading a grim procession of physicians toward the screen.
“Are you going to join us, gentlemen?” he called in his soft, deep voice, overlaid with a lilting, musical accent that was rather reminiscent of central Europe or Scandinavia. The residents shuffled reluctantly forward.
An impassive nurse pulled back the screen, revealing an emaciated old man. His eyes gazed desperately up at the doctors, and horrible muffled sounds emerged from his lips.
“An interesting case, this,” said Mandel, lifting the file. “For some bizarre reason the virus is causing every cavity in this man's body to grow closed. Within a few days his lungs will be unable to pull air, nor will there be room for the proper functioning of his heart . . .”
“So why not end it?” Tachyon took the man's hand, noting the assenting squeeze that answered his words.
“What are you suggesting?” Mandel lowered his voice to an urgent hiss.
Tachyon enunciated each word clearly. “Nothing can be done. Would it not be kinder to spare him this lingering death?”
“I don't know what passes for medicine on your world—or maybe I do, judging from this Hell-born virus you created—but on this world we do not murder our patients.”
Tach felt the hinges of his jaw tighten in anger. “You'll put a dog or cat down mercifully, but you deny your people the only drug known to truly alleviate pain, and you force people into agonizing death. Oh . . . be damned to you!”
He threw back his white coat, revealing a gorgeous outfit of dull gold brocade, and seated himself on the edge of the bed. The man reached desperately up, and Tachyon gripped his hands. It was an easy matter to enter his mind.
Die, let me die, came the thought tinged with the flavor of pain and fear, and yet there was a calm certainty in the man's request.
I cannot. They will not permit it, but I can give you dreams. He moved swiftly, blocking the pain and the reasoning centers of the man's mind. In his own mind he visualized it as a literal wall built of glowing silver-white blocks of power. He gave a boost to the man's pleasure centers, allowing him to drift away in dreams of his own concocting. What he had built was temporary, it would last only a few days, but that would be long enough—before then this joker would have died.
He rose, and looked down at the man's peaceful face.
“What did you do?” demanded Mandel.
He raked the other doctor with an imperious glance. “Just a bit more Hell-born Takisian magic.”
With a lordly nod to the residents, he left the ward. Out in the hall, beds lined the walls, and an orderly was picking his way carefully down the passage. Shirley Dashette beckoned to him from the nurses' station. They had spent several pleasant evenings together exploring the differences and similarities between Takisian and human lovemaking, but tonight he could manage no more than a smile, and the lack of a physical response alarmed him. Maybe it was time to take a rest. “Yes?”
“Dr. Bonners would like to consult with you. The patient's in shock, and occasionally lapses into hysterics, but there's nothing physically wrong with her, and he thought—”
“That she might be one of mine.” Oh God, don't let her be another joker, he groaned inwardly. I don't think I can face another monstrosity. “Where is she?”
“Room 223.”
He could feel exhaustion shivering along his muscles and licking at the nerves. And close on the heels of the exhaustion came despair and self-pity. With a muttered curse he drove his fist into the top of the desk, and Shirley drew back.
“Tach? Are you all right?” Her hand was cool against his cheek.
“Yes. Of course.” He forced his shoulders back and a spring into his step, and headed off down the hall.
Bonners was huddled with another doctor when Tachyon pushed open the door. Bonners frowned, but seemed more than willing to allow him to take charge when the woman in the bed let out a piercing scream and arched against the restraints. Tach leaped to her side, laid a gentle hand on her forehead, and joined with her mind.
OH GOD! The election, would Riley come through? God knows he'd paid enough for it. He'd buy a victory, but he was damned if he'd buy a landslide . . . Mama, I'm frightened . . . The bite of a winter morning, and the hiss of a skate blade cutting across the ice . . . A hand, gripping hers . . . wrong hand. Where was Henry? To leave her now . . . how many more hours . . . he should be here . . . Another contraction coming. NO. She couldn't hear it. Mama . . . Henry . . . PAIN!
He reeled back, and came up panting against the dresser.
“Good Lord, Doctor Tachyon, are you all right?” Bonners's hand was on his arm.
“No . . . yes . . . by the Ideal.” He pulled himself carefully upright. His body still ached in sympathetic memory of the woman's first anguished labor. But where in the hell had that second personality come from, that cold, hard-edged man?
Shaking off Bonners's hand, he returned to the woman and seated himself on the edge of the bed. More cautious this time, he ran swiftly through some calming and strengthening exercises, and struck out with his full psi powers. Her fragile mental defenses fell before the onslaught, and before she could sweep him up in her mental maelstrom he gripped her mind.
Like a blossom, delicate velvet trembling in a breeze with just a hint . . .
He forced himself out of the almost-sensual enjoyment of the mental sharing, and back to the task at hand. Now fully in command, he quickly sifted through her head. What he found added a new wrinkle to the saga of the wild card.
In the early days of the virus they had seen mostly death. Close to twenty thousand of them in the Manhattan area. Ten thousand due to the effects of the virus, another ten due to the rioting, looting, and the National Guard. Then there were the jokers: hideous monsters created from a union of the virus and their own mental constructs. And finally there were the aces. He had seen about thirty of them. Fascinating people with exotic powers—the living proof that the experiment was a success. They had created, despite the terrible toll, super-beings. And now here was a new one with a power unique among the other aces.
He withdrew, leaving only a single tendril of control like reins in the hands of an accomplished horseman. “Yes, you were quite correct, Doctor, she's one of mine.”
Bonners waggled his hands in a gesture of absolute and total confusion. “But how . . . I mean, don't you usually . . . do tests?” he finished lamely.
Tach relaxed, and grinned at his colleague's confusion. “I just did. And it's the most remarkable thing; this woman has somehow managed to absorb all of her husband's knowledge and memories.” His smile died as a new thought intruded. “I suppose we really ought to send someone to their home to see if poor old Henry is a mindless hulk shambling around the bedroom. For all we know she may have sucked him dry. Mentally speaking, of course.”
Bonners looked decidedly queasy, and went. The other doctor left with him.
Tachyon dismissed them, and the fate of Henry van Renssaeler, from his thoughts, and concentrated on the woman on the bed. Her mind and psyche were fissured like rotten ice, and some very quick repair work would have to be done lest the personality shatter under the stress and she descend into madness. Later he would try for a more permanent construct, but it would be patchwork at best. His father would be perfect for this, the repair of broken minds being his gift. But since he was far away on Takis, she would have to depend on Tach's lesser abilities.
“There, my dear,” he murmured as he began to work at the knotted sheets that kept her tied to the bed. “Let's make you a bit m
He reentered the full mindlink. Her mind fluttered beneath his, confused, unable to understand the magnitude of the change that had come over her.
I'm mad . . . it couldn't have happened . . . gone mad.
No, the virus . . .
He's really there . . . can't bear it.
Then don't. See, here and here, reroute and place him deep below.
NO! Take him out, away!
Not possible; control the only answer.
The ward sprang into life like a point of incandescent fire, and drew its intricate cage about “Henry.”
There was a sense of wonder and peace, but he knew they were only halfway there. The ward stood because of his power, not because of any real understanding on her part; if she were to keep her sanity she would have to learn to create it herself. He withdrew. The rigidity had passed out of her body, and her breathing had become more regular. Tach returned to the task of freeing her, whistling a lilting dance tune through his teeth.
For the first time since being summoned to the room he was at leisure to look, really look, at his patient. Her mind had already delighted him, and her body set his pulse to hammering. Shoulder-length sable hair cascaded across the pillow onto the woman's breast, a perfect counterpoint to the champagne-colored satin of her thin nightgown and the alabaster quality of her skin. Long, sooty lashes fluttered on her cheeks, then lifted, revealing eyes of a profound midnight blue.
She regarded him thoughtfully for a few seconds, then asked, “I know you, or do I? I don't know your face, but . . . I . . . feel you.” Her eyes closed again, as if the confusion was too much for her.
Stroking the hair off her forehead, he replied, “I'm Doctor Tachyon, and yes, you do know me. We've shared mind.”
“Mind . . . mind. I touched Henry's mind, but it was awful, awful!” She jerked upright, and sat quivering like some small frightened animal. “He's done such terrible, dishonorable things, I had no idea, and I thought he was—” She bit off the flow of words, and grasped for his arm. “I have to live with him now. Never be free of him. People should be more careful when they choose . . . it's better, I think, not to know what's behind their eyes.” Her eyes closed briefly, and her brow furrowed. Suddenly the lashes were lifted, and her nails bit deep into his bicep. “I liked your mind,” she announced.