Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
Hiram saw the resignation in Hartmann's eyes; that gave him all the information he needed—it would fail, like all the rest. “Senator,” he said, “when this convention's over, I expect you to stop by here again. I'll prepare something special just for you; to let you know that your work's appreciated.”
Gregg clapped Hiram lightly on the back. “On one condition,” he replied. “You have to make sure that I can get a corner booth. By myself. Alone.” The senator chuckled. Hiram grinned in return.
“It's yours. Now, tonight, I'd recommend the beef in red wine— it's very delicate. The asparagus is extremely fresh and I made the sauce myself. As for dessert, you must taste the white chocolate mousse.”
Elevator doors opened behind them. The secret service men glanced warily back as two women stepped out. Gregg nodded to them and shook Hiram's hand again. “You need to take care of your other guests, my friend. Give me a call when this madness is over.”
“You'll be needing a White House chef, too.”
Gregg laughed heartily at that. “You'll need to speak to Carter or Kennedy about that, Hiram. I'm just one of the dark horses in this one.”
“Then they're passing by the best man,” Hiram retorted. He strode off.
The Aces High occupied the observation tower of the Empire State Building. From the expansive windows, the diners could gaze out to a view of Manhattan Island. The sun touched the horizon beyond the city harbor; the golden dome of the Empire State Building tossed reflections into the dining room. In the gold-green sunset, Dr. Tachyon was not difficult to spot, seated at his customary table with a woman Gregg did not recognize. Hiram had been right, Gregg saw immediately—Tachyon wore a dinner jacket of blazing scarlet trimmed with a collar of emerald-green satin. Purple sequins traced bold patterns on the sleeves and shoulders; mercifully, his pants were hidden, though a band of iridescent orange could be glimpsed under the jacket. Gregg waved, Tachyon nodded. “John, please take our guests over to the table and make introductions for me. I'll be over in a second. Amy, would you come with me?” Gregg threaded his way through the tables.
Tachyon's shoulder-length hair was the same improbable red as his jacket. He ran a dainty hand through the tangled locks as he rose to greet Gregg. “Senator Hartmann,” he said. “May I present Angela Fascetti? Angela, this is Senator Gregg Hartmann and his aide Amy Sorenson; the senator's the man responsible for much of the funding of my clinic.”
After a few pleasantries, Amy excused herself. Gregg was pleased when Tachyon's companion took the hint without any prompting from Amy and left the table with her. Gregg waited until the two women were a few tables away and then turned to Tachyon. “I thought you'd like to know that we've confirmed the plant in your clinic, Doctor. Your suspicions were right.”
Tachyon frowned, deep lines creasing his forehead. “KGB?”
“Probably,” Gregg answered. “But as long as we know who he is, he's relatively harmless.”
“I still want him out of there, Senator,” Tachyon insisted politely. He steepled his hands before his face, and when he glanced at Gregg, his lilac eyes were full of an old hurt. “I've had enough difficulty with your government and their previous witch-hunts. I want nothing to do with another. I mean no offense by that, Senator; you've been a good man with whom to work and very helpful to me, but I'd rather keep the clinic entirely away from politics. My desire is to help the jokers, nothing more.”
Gregg could only nod at that. He resisted an impulse to remind the doctor that the politics he claimed he wished to avoid also paid some of the clinic's bills. His voice was laden with sympathy. “That's my interest as well, Doctor. But if we simply fire the man, the KGB will have a new plant in place within a few months. There's a new ace working with us; I'll talk with him.”
“Do whatever you wish, Senator. I'm not interested in your methods so long as the clinic remains unaffected.”
“I'll see that it is.” Across the room, Gregg saw Amy and Angela making their way toward them.
“You're here to meet with Tom Miller?” Tachyon inquired, one eyebrow arching. He nodded his head slightly in the direction of Gregg's table, where John was still making introductions.
“The dwarf? Yes. He's—”
“I know him, Senator. I suspect he's responsible for quite a lot of death and violence in Jokertown in recent months. He's a bitter and dangerous man, Senator.”
“That's exactly why I want to forestall him.”
“I wish you luck,” Tachyon commented dryly.
JJS PROMISES VIOLENCE IF PLANK DEFEATED
The New York Times, July 14, 1976
Sondra Falin felt mixed emotions as Gregg Hartmann approached the table. She'd known that she was going to face this difficulty tonight and perhaps had drunk more than she should have. The liquor burned in her stomach. Tom Miller—“Gimli,” as he preferred to be called in the JJS—fidgeted next to her, and she laid an unsteady hand on the thick muscles of his forearm.
“Keep your fucking paws off me,” the dwarf growled. “You ain't my goddamn grandmother, Sondra.”
The remark stung her more than it otherwise might have; she could only look down at her hand; at the dry, liverspotted skin hanging loose over thin bones; at the swollen and arthritic knuckles. He'll look at me and smile like a stranger and I can't tell him. Tears stung her eyes; she wiped at them savagely with the back of her hand, then drained the glass that sat before her. Glenlivet: it seared her throat all the way down.
The senator beamed at them. His grin was more than just the professional tool of a politician—Hartmann's face was natural and open, inviting confidence. “Excuse my rudeness in not coming right over,” he said. “I'd like to say that I'm very glad that the two of you agreed to meet with me tonight. You're Tom Miller?” Gregg said, turning to the bearded visage of the dwarf, his hand extended.
“No, I'm Warren Beatty and this here's Cinderella,” Miller replied sourly. His voice had the twang of the Midwest. “Show him your slipper, Sondra.” The dwarf cocked his head belligerently at Hartmann, pointedly ignoring the hand.
Most people would have ignored the insult, Sondra knew. They would have drawn back their hand and pretended that it had never been offered. “I met Mr. Beatty last night at the Rolling Stone party,” the senator said. He smiled, his hand the focus of attention around the table. “I even managed to shake his hand.”
Hartmann waited. In the silence, Miller grumbled. At last the dwarf took Hartmann's fingers in his own ham-fisted grip. With the touch, Sondra seemed to see Hartmann's smile go cold for a moment, as if the contact had pained him slightly. He quickly let go of Miller's hand. Then his composure returned. “Good to meet you,” Hartmann said. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, only a genuine warmth, a relief.
Sondra understood how she had come to love this man. It's not you who loves him; it's only Succubus. She's the one Gregg knows. To him, you're just an old, shriveled woman whose politics are in question. He'll never know that Succubus is the same person, not if you want to keep him. All he'll ever see is the fantasy Succubus makes for him. That's what Miller said we have to do, and you'll obey him, won't you?
No matter how much it hurts you.
Now it was her turn to shake Gregg's hand. She felt her fingers trembling as they touched; Gregg noticed it as well, for a faint sympathy seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. Still, there was only curiosity and interest in his gray-blue eyes; no recognition beyond that. Sondra's mood darkened again. He's wondering what horrible things afflict this old woman. He wonders what ugliness is sitting inside me, what horrors I might reveal if he knew me.
She reached for the glass of scotch.
Her mood continued to deepen throughout the meal. The pattern of conversation seemed set. Hartmann would introduce a topic, and Miller would respond with unjustified sarcasm and scorn, which in turn the senator smoothed over. Sondra listened to the interplay without joining in. The others around the table evidently felt the same tension, for the stage r
“. . . need you to promise that there will be no public displays,” Hartmann was saying.
“Shit,” Miller replied. For a moment, Sondra thought that he might actually spit. The sallow, pitted cheeks under Gimli's ruddy beard swelled and his maniacal eyes narrowed. Then he banged a fist on the table, rattling dishes. The bodyguards tensed in their seats, the others around the table jumped at the sound. “That's the same crap all you politicians hand out,” the dwarf growled. “The JJS has heard it for years now. Be good and roll over like a good dog and we'll throw you a few table scraps. It's time we were let in on the feast, Hartmann. The jokers are tired of leftovers.”
Hartmann's voice, in contrast to Miller's, was soft and reasonable. “That's something I agree with, Mr. Miller, Ms. Falin.” Gregg nodded to Sondra, and she could only frown in return, feeling the drag of the wrinkles around her mouth. “That's exactly why I've proposed that the Democratic party add the Jokers' Rights plank to our presidential platform. That's why I've been out trying to collar every last vote I can get for it.” Gregg spread his hands wide. In another person his speech might have had a hollow sound, a falseness. But Gregg's words were full of the long, tired hours he'd spent at the convention, and that lent them truth. “That's why I'm asking you to try to keep your organization calm. Demonstrations, especially anything of a violent nature, are going to prejudice the middle-of-the-road delegates against you. I'm asking you to give me a chance, to give yourselves a chance. Abandon your plan to march to Jetboy's Tomb. You don't have a permit; the police are already on edge from the crowds in the city, and they'll move in on you if you try.”
“Then, stop them,” Sondra said. The scotch slurred her words, and she shook her head. “No one questions the fact that you care. So stop 'em.”
Hartmann grimaced. “I can't. I've already advised the mayor against such actions, but he's adamant. March, and you invite confrontation. I can't condone your breaking the law.”
“Roll over, doggie,” Miller drawled, and then he howled loudly, throwing his head back. Around the dining room, patrons began to glance toward them. Tachyon peered at them with frank anger and Hiram's worried face emerged from the kitchen doors. One of the secret service men began to rise but Gregg waved him down. “Mr. Miller, please. I'm trying to talk realities with you. There's only so much money and help available, and if you persist in antagonizing those who control them, you'll only hurt yourselves.”
“And I'm telling you that fucking 'reality' is in the streets of Jokertown. C'mon down and rub your nose in the shit, Senator. Take a look at the poor creatures wandering the streets, the ones the virus wasn't kind enough to kill, the ones that drag themselves down the sidewalk on stumps, the blind ones, or the ones with two heads or four arms. The ones who drool as they talk, the ones who hide in darkness because the sun burns them, the ones for whom the slightest touch is agony.” Miller's voice rose, the tone vibrant and deep. Around the table, jaws had dropped; the reporters scribbled notes. Sondra could feel it as well, the throbbing power in that voice, compelling. She'd seen Miller stand before a jeering crowd in Jokertown and in fifteen minutes have them listening quietly, nodding to his words. Even Gregg was leaning forward, caught.
Listen to him, but be careful. His voice is that of the snake, mesmerizing, and when he's snared you, he'll pounce.
“That's your 'reality,' “ Miller purred. “Your goddamn convention's just an act. And I tell you now, Senator”—his voice was suddenly a shout—“the JJS will take our protests into the streets.”
“Mr. Miller—” Gregg began.
“Gimli! “ Miller shouted, and his voice went strident, all its power gone, as if Miller had used up some inner store. “My fucking name's Gimli! “ He was on his feet, standing on his chair. In another, the posture would have seemed ludicrous, but none of them could laugh at him. “I'm a fucking dwarf, not one of your 'misters'!”
Sondra tugged at Miller's arm; he shrugged her away. “Let me alone. I want them to see how much I hate them.”
“Hate's useless,” Gregg insisted. “None of us here hate you. If you knew the hours I've put in for the jokers, all the drudge work that Amy and John have gone through . . .”
“You don't fucking live it!” Miller screamed it. Spittle flew from his mouth, dappling the front of Gregg's jacket. Everyone in the room stared now, and the bodyguards lurched from their seats. Only Gregg's hand held them back.
“Can't you see that we're your allies, not enemies?”
“No ally of mine would have a face like yours, Senator. You're too damn normal. You want to feel like one of the jokers? Then let me help you learn what it's like to be pitied.”
Before any of them could react, Miller crouched. His thick, powerful legs hurled him toward the senator. His fingers curled like claws as he reached for Gregg's face. Gregg recoiled, his hands coming up. Sondra's mouth was open in the beginning of a useless protest.
And the dwarf suddenly collapsed onto the table as if a gigantic hand had struck him out of the air. The table bowed and splintered under him, glasses and china cascading to the floor. Miller gave a high, pitiful squeal like a wounded animal as Hiram, a molten fury on his red face, half-ran across the dining room toward them, as the secret service men vainly tugged at Miller's arms to get him off the floor. “Damn, the little shit's heavy,” one of them muttered.
“Out of my restaurant! “ Hiram thundered. He bulled his way between the bodyguards and bent over the dwarf. He plucked up the man as if he were a feather—Gimli seemed to bob in the air, buoyant, his mouth working soundlessly, his face bleeding from several small scratches. “You are never to set foot in here again!” Hiram roared, a plump finger wagging before the dwarf's startled eyes. Hiram began to march toward the exit, towing the dwarf as if pulling a balloon and scolding him the entire time. “You insult my people, you behave abominably, you even threaten the senator, who's only trying to help . . .” Hiram's voice trailed off as the foyer doors swung shut behind him, as Hartmann brushed china shards from his suit and shook his head to the bodyguards. “Let him go. The man has a right to be upset —you'd be too if you had to live in Jokertown.”
Gregg sighed and shook his head at Sondra, who gaped after the dwarf. “Ms. Falin, I beg you—if you've any control over the JJS and Miller, please hold him back. I meant what I said. You only endanger your own cause. Truly.” He seemed more sad than angry. He looked at the destruction around his feet and sighed. “Poor Hiram,” he said. “And I promised him.”
The alcohol she'd consumed made Sondra dizzy and slow. She nodded to Gregg and realized that they were all looking at her, waiting for her to say something. She shook her gray, wizened head to them. “I'll try,” was all she could mutter. Then: “Excuse me, please.” Sondra turned and fled the room, her arthritic knees protesting.
She could feel Gregg's stare on her hunched back.
* * *
FLOOR VOTE ON JOKERS' RIGHTS TONIGHT
The New York Times, July 15, 1976
JJS VOWS MARCH ON TOMB New York Daily News, July 15, 1976
The high-pressure cell had squatted over New York for the past two days like an enormous tired beast, turning the city unseasonably hot and muggy. The heat was thick and foul with fumes; it moved in the lungs like the Jack Daniel's Sondra poured down her throat—a burning, sour glow. She stood in front of a small electric fan perched on her dresser, staring into the mirror. Her face sagged in a cross-hatching of wrinkles; dry, gray hair was matted with sweat against a brown-spotted scalp; the breasts were empty sacks hanging flat against the bony rib cage. Her frayed housecoat gaped open, and perspiration trickled down the slopes of her ribs. She hated the sight. Despairing
Outside, on Pitt Street, Jokertown was coming fully awake in the darkness. From her window, Sondra could see them, the ones that Gimli always ranted about. There was Lambent, far too visible with the eternal glow of his skin; Marigold, a cluster of bright pustules bursting on her skin like slow blossoms; Flicker, sliding from sight in the darkness as if illuminated by a slow strobe light. All of them seeking their small comforts. The sight made Sondra melancholy. As she leaned against the wall, her shoulder bumped a photograph in a cheap frame. The picture was that of a young girl perhaps twelve years old, dressed only in a lacy camisole that slipped over one shoulder to reveal the upper swell of pubescent breasts. The shot was overtly sexual—there was a haunting wistfulness in the child's expression and a certain affinity to the eroded features of the old woman. Sondra reached over to straighten the frame, sighing. The paint covered by the photograph was darker than that on the walls, testifying to how long it had been in place.
Sondra took another pull on the Jack Daniel's.
Twenty years. In that time, Sonya's body had aged two-and-a-half times as much. The child in the photo was Sondra, the picture taken by her father in 1956. He'd raped her a year before, her body already showing the signs of puberty though she'd been born five years earlier in '51.
Careful footsteps sounded on the stairway outside her apartment and halted. Sondra frowned. Time to whore again. Damn you, Sondra, for ever letting Miller talk you into this. Damn you for ever coming to care for the man you're supposed to be using. Even through the door she could feel the faint prickling of the man's pheromonal anticipation, amplified by her own feelings for him. She felt her body yearning to respond sympathetically and she relaxed her control. She closed her eyes.
At least enjoy the feel of it. At least be glad that for a little while you'll be young again. She could feel the quick changes moving in her body, straining at the muscles and tendons, pulling her into a new shape. The spine straightened, oils lathed the skin so that it lost its dry brittleness. Her breasts rose as a sexual heat began to throb in her loins. She stroked her neck and found the sagging folds gone. Sondra let the housecoat fall from her shoulders.