Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
A joker stumbled by the mouth of the alley, obviously dazed, holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to his temple though the cut gaped open down past his ear, soaking the collar of his shirt. It was obvious how he had been caught—his legs and arms were canted at all the wrong angles, as if they'd been pasted on his trunk by a drunken sculptor. The man hobbled and lurched, the joints bending backward and sideways. Three cops came walking quickly alongside him. “I need a doctor,” the joker said to one of them. When the officer ignored him, he tugged at the sleeve of the uniform. “Hey,” he said. The cop pulled a can of mace from its holster on his belt and sprayed the contents directly into the joker's face.
Sondra gasped and sank deeper into the alley. When the police kept walking, she fled the other way.
Through the night, the violence spread out in the Jokertown streets. A running battle raged between the authorities and the jokers. It was a spree of destruction, a celebration of hate. No one slept that night. Masked jokers confronted the lurking cruisers, overturning some of them; burning cars illuminated intersections. Near the waterfront, Tachyon's clinic looked like a castle under siege, ringed by armed guards with the distinctive figure of the doctor himself running about trying to keep some semblance of sanity in the night. Tachyon, along with a few trusted aides, made forays into the streets to pick up the injured, both jokers and policemen.
Jokertown began to come apart, dying in fire and blood. Tear-gas fumes drifted through the streets, acrid. By midnight, the National Guard had been called in and issued live ammunition. The SCARE offices of Senator Hartmann issued a call for those aces working for the government to aid in calming the situation.
The Great and Powerful Turtle hovered over the streets like one of the war machines in George Pal's War of the Worlds, sweeping the combatants away from each other. Like many of the other aces, he seemed to take no side in the confrontation, using his abilities to break up the running battles without subduing either jokers or police. Outside Tachyon's clinic (where by one A.M. the wards were nearly full and the doctor was beginning to bed down the injured in the corridors) the Turtle picked up a wrecked, burning Mustang and hurled the car into the East River like a flaming meteorite, trailing sparks and smoke. He prowled South Street, shoving rioters and Guardsmen in front of him as if he wielded an invisible, giant plow.
On Third Street, the Guardsmen had rigged jeeps with wire-mesh covers and attached large frames of barbed wire to the fronts of the vehicles. They used these to move crowds of jokers out of the main avenue and into the side streets. Spontaneous fires triggered by a hidden joker exploded the gas tanks of the jeeps, and Guardsmen ran screaming, their uniforms aflame. Rifle fire began to chatter.
Near Chatham Square, the sound of the rioting began to swell to immense, ear-shattering proportions as the Howler, dressed all in yellow, stalked the chaotic streets, his mouth open in a wail that contained all he had heard, amplified and redoubled. Where Howler walked, jokers flung hands over ears, fleeing from this torrent of noise. Windows shattered when Howler raised the frequencies, walls shivered as he sobbed in the bass range. “STOP THIS!” he raged. “GO INSIDE, ALL OF YOU!”
Black Shadow, who had revealed himself as an ace only a few months before, indicated his sympathies quickly. He watched the conflicts silently for a time. On Pitt Street, where a band of beleaguered jokers fought with taunts, thrown bottles, and the garbage at hand against a water cannon and a squad of Guardsmen with bayonets fixed to their rifles, Black Shadow stepped into the fray. The street went instantly black for perhaps twenty feet around the ace with the navy-blue uniform and orange-red domino mask. The impenetrable night persisted for ten minutes or more. Screams came from inside the well of dark, and jokers fled. When the darkness moved off and the lights of the city again reflected from the wet pavement, the Guardsmen lay in the street unconscious, the water cannon pouring a harsh stream into the gutters, unattended.
Sondra saw that last confrontation from the window of her apartment. The violence of the night frightened her. To escape the fright, she twisted the cap from the bottle of Jack Daniel's on her dresser, pouring a long, harsh slug down her throat. She gasped, wiping at the back of her mouth with her hand. Every muscle in her body protested. Her arthritic legs and hands shot agony when she moved. She went to bed and lay down. She could not sleep—the sounds of rioting drifted in from the open window, she could smell smoke from nearby fires and see the shuddering flames dancing on her walls. She was afraid that she would have to leave the building; she wondered what she would try to save if it came to that.
There was a soft knock at her apartment door. At first, she was not certain that she heard it. It was repeated, quiet and persistent, and she groaned to her feet.
As she approached the door, she knew who it was. Her body felt it. Succubus felt it. “No,” Sondra whispered to herself. No, not now. He rapped on the door again.
“Go away, please, Gregg,” she said, leaning against the door, keeping her voice quiet so he could not hear the old woman's tones in it.
“Succubus?” His voice was insistent. His arousal tugged at her, and she wondered at it. Why now? Why here? God, I can't let him see me like this, and he won't go away. “Just a minute,” she said, and she let down the barriers that caged Succubus. Her body began its change, and she felt the swirling of his passion inciting her own. She stripped away Sondra's clothes, flinging them away into a corner. She opened the door.
Gregg was masked, his entire head covered with a grotesque smiling clown's face. It leered at her as he pushed his way inside. He said nothing; his hands were already unzipping his pants, pulling out his stiffening cock. He did not bother to undress, engaged in no foreplay at all. He pushed her down onto the hardwood floor and jammed himself into her, thrusting with gasping breaths as Succubus moved under him, matching his ferocity and cooperating with this loveless rape. He was brutal: his fingers dug into her small, firm breasts, the nails tearing small, bleeding crescents of skin. He crushed her nipples between thumb and forefinger until she cried out—he desired pain from her tonight; he needed her to cringe and cry and yet to be the willing victim. He slapped her face; when she brought her hands up to stop him from doing it again, her nostrils drooling blood, he twisted her wrist viciously.
And when he was done with her, he stood over her looking down, the clown's head laughing at her, his own face unreadable behind the mask. She could see only his eyes, glistening as he stared at her.
“It had to be that way,” he said. There was no apology in his voice. Succubus nodded; she had known that and accepted it. Sondra wailed inside her.
Hartmann zipped up his pants. The front of his shirt was soiled with blood and their fluids. “Do you understand at all?” he asked her. His voice was gentle, calm; it begged her to listen, to sympathize. “You're one person who accepts me without my having to do anything. You don't care that I'm a senator. I don't have to—” He stopped and brushed at his suit. “You love me. I can feel that. You care for me, and I don't have to make you care. I wish . . .” He shrugged. “I need you.”
Perhaps it was because she could not see his face. Perhaps it was because his roughness, when before he had always been so tender, had driven Succubus's empathy deeper into him than in the past. But she could feel his thoughts for a moment as he left her sprawled on the floor, and what she sensed made her shiver despite the awful heat. He was thinking of the rioting outside, and in the senator's mind was no loathing, no distaste; there was only a glow of pleasure, a sense of proprietorial accomplishment. She glanced at him in astonishment.
It's been him. All along, it's been him using us, not the other way around.
At the door, Gregg turned and spoke to her. “Succubus, I do love you. I don't think you can understand that, but it's true. Please, believe that. I need you more than I need all the rest.”
Behind the mask, she could see the brightness of his pupils. She was astonished to see that he was crying.
Somehow, with all the strangeness Sondra had w
itnessed during this night, that did not seem so strange at all.
Puppetman found that his safety lay in anonymity, in the appearance of innocence. After all, none of the puppets ever knew that he had touched them, none of them could tell anyone what had happened inside their minds. They had simply . . . snapped. Puppetman had only let them act out their own feelings; there was always ample motivation for whatever crimes his puppets might commit. If they were caught, no matter.
In 1961, graduating from Harvard Law School, he had joined a prestigious New York law firm. In five years, after a successful career as a criminal lawyer, he moved into politics. In 1965, he was elected New York city councilman. He was mayor from '68 to '72, when he became New York senator.
In 1976, he saw his chance to become President. In the past, he'd always thought in terms of '80, of '84. But the Democratic National Convention went to New York in the Bicentennial year, and Puppetman knew that here was his moment.
The groundwork had all been laid.
He had fed many times from the deep cup of bitterness inside Tom Miller.
Now he would drink fully.
FIFTEEN DEAD AS JOKERTOWN BURNS The New York Times, July 19, 1976
The morning sun was misted by dark smoke. The city broiled under the renewed heat, worse than the days before. The violence had not ended with the morning. The streets of Jokertown were awash in destruction, littered with the detritus of the night's turmoil. The rioters fought guerilla battles with the police and Guardsmen, hampering their movements through the streets, overturning cars to block intersections, setting fires, taunting the authorities from balconies and windows. Jokertown itself was ringed with squad cars, jeeps, and fire equipment. Guardsmen in full gear were stationed every few yards on Second Avenue. Along Chrystie, the guards massed around Roosevelt Park, where once again the jokers were gathering. Gimli's voice could be heard deep in the crowd, haranguing them, telling them that today they would march no matter what the consequences. All of the Democratic candidates made an appearance near the stricken area, to be photographed with concerned, stern expressions as they gazed at the burnt-out shell of a building or spoke with a not-too-misshapen joker. Kennedy, Carter, Udall, Jackson—they all made certain they were seen and then took their limos back to the Garden, where the delegates had cast two inconclusive rounds of votes for the candidacy. Only Hartmann came and stayed near Jokertown, chatting with the newsmen and trying unsuccessfully to coax Miller out from the depths of the crowd to negotiate.
At noon, with the temperature touching three figures and a breeze from the East River bringing the smell of burning to the city, the jokers came out of the park.
Gregg had never handled so many puppets before. Gimli was still the key, and he could feel the dwarf's raging presence maybe a hundred yards back into the crowd of jokers that filled Grand. In this swirling mess, Miller alone would not be enough to turn the jokers back at the right time. Gregg had made certain that he'd been able to shake the hands of the JJS leaders over the past few weeks; every time, he'd used that contact to plunge into the mind before him and open the pathways that would allow him access from a distance. A mob was like any herd of animals—turn enough of the leaders and the rest would inevitably follow. Gregg had most of them: Gargantua, Peanut, Tinhorn, File, perhaps twenty others. A few of them such as Sondra Falin he'd ignored—the old woman reminded him of someone's decrepit grandmother and he doubted her ability to sway the mob. Most of the puppets already had a fear in them—it would be easy to use that, to expand that fright until they turned and fled. Most of them were reasonable people; they wanted confrontation no more than anyone else. They had been goaded into it—Hartmann's doing. Now he would undo it, and in the process make himself the candidate of choice. Already the tide of the convention had turned away from Kennedy and Carter. With the delegates now absolved of their first vote commitment, they were free to elect the candidate of their choice—in the last ballot, Hartmann had placed a rising third. Gregg smiled despite the cameras aimed toward him: the rioting of the night before had given him a pleasure that he had not thought he would ever feel—so much passion had nearly overwhelmed him, a strange melding of lusts.
The line of Guardsmen began to shift as the jokers approached. They spilled out all along the length of Chrystie, shouting slogans and brandishing signs. Bullhorns blared orders and curses back and forth; Gregg could hear the taunts of the jokers as the Guardsmen formed a line of bayonets. At the intersection of Delancey Street, Gregg saw the hovering shell of the Turtle above the Guardsmen; there, at least, the protesters were kept back without harm. Farther south toward the main gates, where Hartmann stood in a circle of guards, it was not so easy.
The jokers came on, pushing and shoving, the mass of those behind propelling those who might have otherwise turned back into the park. The Guardsmen were forced to make a decision—use the bayonets or try to push the jokers back with linked arms. They chose the latter. For a moment, it looked as if some balance had been reached, then the ranks of Guardsmen began to slowly bend. With a cry, a knot of jokers broke through the line and reached the street. Shouting, the rest poured through. Once again, a running battle ensued, disorganized and confused. Hartmann, well back from the fighting for the moment, sighed. He closed his eyes as the impressions of his puppets began to reach him. If he wished, he could have lost himself then, could have plunged into that roiling sea of emotion and fed until satiated.
But he could not wait that long. He had to move while there was still some form to the conflict. Gesturing to the guards, he began to move forward toward the gates, toward the presence of Gimli.
Sondra was with the rest of the main cadre of the JJS. As they marched through the main gate, she tried again to tell Gimli about that strangeness she'd sensed in Hartmann last night. “He thought he was controlling all of this. I swear it, Gimli.”
“Just like any other fucking politician, old woman. Besides, I thought you liked him.”
“I do, but—”
“Look, why the hell are you here?”
“Because I'm a joker. Because the JJS is my group too, whether I agree with what you're doing or not.”
“Then shut up, dammit. I've got a lot to handle here.”
The dwarf glared at her and moved away. They were walking at a slow, funereal pace toward the waiting Guardsmen. Sondra could see them through those in front of her. Then the vision was gone as the jokers crowded into the constriction of the gates; hobbling, limping, making their way as best they could. Many of them bore signs of the struggle of the day before; heads wrapped in bandages, slings—they proffered them to the Guardsmen like badges of honor. The bodies in front of Sondra suddenly halted as they hit the line of Guardsmen; someone shoved her from behind and she almost fell. She hugged the person before her, feeling leathery skin under her hands, seeing lizard-like scales covering a massive back. Sondra cried out as she was crushed, pushing away with feeble arms, muscles wobbling inside loose bags of skin. She thought she would fall, when suddenly the pressure was released. She staggered. Her eyes caught the sun then; she was momentarily blinded. In the confusion, she could see fists swinging in front of her, accompanied by shouts and cries. Sondra began to retreat, trying to find a way past the conflict. She was shoved, and when she struck back, a club slammed against the side of her head.
Sondra screamed. Succubus screamed.
Her vision was lost in swirls of color. She could not think. She held her hands over the cut and the hands felt odd. Blinking away blood from the cut on her temple, she tried to look at them. They were young, those hands, and even as she gaped at them in confusion, she felt the sudden intrusion of other passions.
No! Go back inside, damn you! Not here, not in the streets, not with all these people around! Desperately, Sondra tried to place the controls back on Succubus, but her head rang with the concussion and she could not think. Her body was in torment, shifting fluidly in response to everyone about her. Succubus touched each of the minds and took the shap
e of its sexual desires. She was first female, then male; young and old, thin and fat. Succubus wailed in confusion. Sondra ran, her shape altering with each step, pushing against the hands that reached out for her in sudden odd lust. Succubus responded as she had to; she took the thread of desire and wove it into passion. In an ever-widening circle, the rioting ended as jokers and Guardsmen alike turned to pursue the quick tug of desire. Succubus could feel him as well, and she tried to make her way toward Gregg. She didn't know what else to do. He controlled this; she knew that from last night. He could save her. He loved her—he had said so.
The cameras followed Senator Hartmann's progress toward the gate where a few scuffles were just beginning. When his bodyguards tried to hold the senator back, he shrugged their hands aside. “Dammit, someone has to try,” he was heard to say.
“Oh, good stuff,” one of the reporters muttered.
Hartmann pushed forward. The bodyguards looked at one another, shrugged, and followed.
Gregg could feel the presence of most of his puppets in the area near the gate. With the Turtle holding back the jokers at the other end of the park, Gregg realized that this would be his best opportunity. Getting Gimli and the others to retreat now would turn everyone back. If the rioting continued into the night again, no matter—Gregg would have quite amply demonstrated his calm sureheadedness in a crisis. The papers would be full of the account the next morning and all the networks would feature his face and name prominently. That would be enough to ensure the nomination with a grand momentum into the campaign itself. Ford or Reagan; it wouldn't matter who the Republicans chose.
Keeping his face grim, Gregg strode toward the center of the conflict. “Miller!” he shouted, knowing the dwarf was close enough to hear him. “Miller, this is Hartmann!” As he shouted, he gave a tug at Miller's mind and closed down that molten heat of rage, laving it with cool azure. He felt the sudden release, felt the beginning of the dwarf's disgust at the vision around him. Hartmann twisted the mind again, touching the core of fright in the man and willing it to grow, a cold whiteness.
Sondra gasped and sank deeper into the alley. When the police kept walking, she fled the other way.
Through the night, the violence spread out in the Jokertown streets. A running battle raged between the authorities and the jokers. It was a spree of destruction, a celebration of hate. No one slept that night. Masked jokers confronted the lurking cruisers, overturning some of them; burning cars illuminated intersections. Near the waterfront, Tachyon's clinic looked like a castle under siege, ringed by armed guards with the distinctive figure of the doctor himself running about trying to keep some semblance of sanity in the night. Tachyon, along with a few trusted aides, made forays into the streets to pick up the injured, both jokers and policemen.
Jokertown began to come apart, dying in fire and blood. Tear-gas fumes drifted through the streets, acrid. By midnight, the National Guard had been called in and issued live ammunition. The SCARE offices of Senator Hartmann issued a call for those aces working for the government to aid in calming the situation.
The Great and Powerful Turtle hovered over the streets like one of the war machines in George Pal's War of the Worlds, sweeping the combatants away from each other. Like many of the other aces, he seemed to take no side in the confrontation, using his abilities to break up the running battles without subduing either jokers or police. Outside Tachyon's clinic (where by one A.M. the wards were nearly full and the doctor was beginning to bed down the injured in the corridors) the Turtle picked up a wrecked, burning Mustang and hurled the car into the East River like a flaming meteorite, trailing sparks and smoke. He prowled South Street, shoving rioters and Guardsmen in front of him as if he wielded an invisible, giant plow.
On Third Street, the Guardsmen had rigged jeeps with wire-mesh covers and attached large frames of barbed wire to the fronts of the vehicles. They used these to move crowds of jokers out of the main avenue and into the side streets. Spontaneous fires triggered by a hidden joker exploded the gas tanks of the jeeps, and Guardsmen ran screaming, their uniforms aflame. Rifle fire began to chatter.
Near Chatham Square, the sound of the rioting began to swell to immense, ear-shattering proportions as the Howler, dressed all in yellow, stalked the chaotic streets, his mouth open in a wail that contained all he had heard, amplified and redoubled. Where Howler walked, jokers flung hands over ears, fleeing from this torrent of noise. Windows shattered when Howler raised the frequencies, walls shivered as he sobbed in the bass range. “STOP THIS!” he raged. “GO INSIDE, ALL OF YOU!”
Black Shadow, who had revealed himself as an ace only a few months before, indicated his sympathies quickly. He watched the conflicts silently for a time. On Pitt Street, where a band of beleaguered jokers fought with taunts, thrown bottles, and the garbage at hand against a water cannon and a squad of Guardsmen with bayonets fixed to their rifles, Black Shadow stepped into the fray. The street went instantly black for perhaps twenty feet around the ace with the navy-blue uniform and orange-red domino mask. The impenetrable night persisted for ten minutes or more. Screams came from inside the well of dark, and jokers fled. When the darkness moved off and the lights of the city again reflected from the wet pavement, the Guardsmen lay in the street unconscious, the water cannon pouring a harsh stream into the gutters, unattended.
Sondra saw that last confrontation from the window of her apartment. The violence of the night frightened her. To escape the fright, she twisted the cap from the bottle of Jack Daniel's on her dresser, pouring a long, harsh slug down her throat. She gasped, wiping at the back of her mouth with her hand. Every muscle in her body protested. Her arthritic legs and hands shot agony when she moved. She went to bed and lay down. She could not sleep—the sounds of rioting drifted in from the open window, she could smell smoke from nearby fires and see the shuddering flames dancing on her walls. She was afraid that she would have to leave the building; she wondered what she would try to save if it came to that.
There was a soft knock at her apartment door. At first, she was not certain that she heard it. It was repeated, quiet and persistent, and she groaned to her feet.
As she approached the door, she knew who it was. Her body felt it. Succubus felt it. “No,” Sondra whispered to herself. No, not now. He rapped on the door again.
“Go away, please, Gregg,” she said, leaning against the door, keeping her voice quiet so he could not hear the old woman's tones in it.
“Succubus?” His voice was insistent. His arousal tugged at her, and she wondered at it. Why now? Why here? God, I can't let him see me like this, and he won't go away. “Just a minute,” she said, and she let down the barriers that caged Succubus. Her body began its change, and she felt the swirling of his passion inciting her own. She stripped away Sondra's clothes, flinging them away into a corner. She opened the door.
Gregg was masked, his entire head covered with a grotesque smiling clown's face. It leered at her as he pushed his way inside. He said nothing; his hands were already unzipping his pants, pulling out his stiffening cock. He did not bother to undress, engaged in no foreplay at all. He pushed her down onto the hardwood floor and jammed himself into her, thrusting with gasping breaths as Succubus moved under him, matching his ferocity and cooperating with this loveless rape. He was brutal: his fingers dug into her small, firm breasts, the nails tearing small, bleeding crescents of skin. He crushed her nipples between thumb and forefinger until she cried out—he desired pain from her tonight; he needed her to cringe and cry and yet to be the willing victim. He slapped her face; when she brought her hands up to stop him from doing it again, her nostrils drooling blood, he twisted her wrist viciously.
And when he was done with her, he stood over her looking down, the clown's head laughing at her, his own face unreadable behind the mask. She could see only his eyes, glistening as he stared at her.
“It had to be that way,” he said. There was no apology in his voice. Succubus nodded; she had known that and accepted it. Sondra wailed inside her.
Hartmann zipped up his pants. The front of his shirt was soiled with blood and their fluids. “Do you understand at all?” he asked her. His voice was gentle, calm; it begged her to listen, to sympathize. “You're one person who accepts me without my having to do anything. You don't care that I'm a senator. I don't have to—” He stopped and brushed at his suit. “You love me. I can feel that. You care for me, and I don't have to make you care. I wish . . .” He shrugged. “I need you.”
Perhaps it was because she could not see his face. Perhaps it was because his roughness, when before he had always been so tender, had driven Succubus's empathy deeper into him than in the past. But she could feel his thoughts for a moment as he left her sprawled on the floor, and what she sensed made her shiver despite the awful heat. He was thinking of the rioting outside, and in the senator's mind was no loathing, no distaste; there was only a glow of pleasure, a sense of proprietorial accomplishment. She glanced at him in astonishment.
It's been him. All along, it's been him using us, not the other way around.
At the door, Gregg turned and spoke to her. “Succubus, I do love you. I don't think you can understand that, but it's true. Please, believe that. I need you more than I need all the rest.”
Behind the mask, she could see the brightness of his pupils. She was astonished to see that he was crying.
Somehow, with all the strangeness Sondra had w
Puppetman found that his safety lay in anonymity, in the appearance of innocence. After all, none of the puppets ever knew that he had touched them, none of them could tell anyone what had happened inside their minds. They had simply . . . snapped. Puppetman had only let them act out their own feelings; there was always ample motivation for whatever crimes his puppets might commit. If they were caught, no matter.
In 1961, graduating from Harvard Law School, he had joined a prestigious New York law firm. In five years, after a successful career as a criminal lawyer, he moved into politics. In 1965, he was elected New York city councilman. He was mayor from '68 to '72, when he became New York senator.
In 1976, he saw his chance to become President. In the past, he'd always thought in terms of '80, of '84. But the Democratic National Convention went to New York in the Bicentennial year, and Puppetman knew that here was his moment.
The groundwork had all been laid.
He had fed many times from the deep cup of bitterness inside Tom Miller.
Now he would drink fully.
FIFTEEN DEAD AS JOKERTOWN BURNS The New York Times, July 19, 1976
The morning sun was misted by dark smoke. The city broiled under the renewed heat, worse than the days before. The violence had not ended with the morning. The streets of Jokertown were awash in destruction, littered with the detritus of the night's turmoil. The rioters fought guerilla battles with the police and Guardsmen, hampering their movements through the streets, overturning cars to block intersections, setting fires, taunting the authorities from balconies and windows. Jokertown itself was ringed with squad cars, jeeps, and fire equipment. Guardsmen in full gear were stationed every few yards on Second Avenue. Along Chrystie, the guards massed around Roosevelt Park, where once again the jokers were gathering. Gimli's voice could be heard deep in the crowd, haranguing them, telling them that today they would march no matter what the consequences. All of the Democratic candidates made an appearance near the stricken area, to be photographed with concerned, stern expressions as they gazed at the burnt-out shell of a building or spoke with a not-too-misshapen joker. Kennedy, Carter, Udall, Jackson—they all made certain they were seen and then took their limos back to the Garden, where the delegates had cast two inconclusive rounds of votes for the candidacy. Only Hartmann came and stayed near Jokertown, chatting with the newsmen and trying unsuccessfully to coax Miller out from the depths of the crowd to negotiate.
At noon, with the temperature touching three figures and a breeze from the East River bringing the smell of burning to the city, the jokers came out of the park.
Gregg had never handled so many puppets before. Gimli was still the key, and he could feel the dwarf's raging presence maybe a hundred yards back into the crowd of jokers that filled Grand. In this swirling mess, Miller alone would not be enough to turn the jokers back at the right time. Gregg had made certain that he'd been able to shake the hands of the JJS leaders over the past few weeks; every time, he'd used that contact to plunge into the mind before him and open the pathways that would allow him access from a distance. A mob was like any herd of animals—turn enough of the leaders and the rest would inevitably follow. Gregg had most of them: Gargantua, Peanut, Tinhorn, File, perhaps twenty others. A few of them such as Sondra Falin he'd ignored—the old woman reminded him of someone's decrepit grandmother and he doubted her ability to sway the mob. Most of the puppets already had a fear in them—it would be easy to use that, to expand that fright until they turned and fled. Most of them were reasonable people; they wanted confrontation no more than anyone else. They had been goaded into it—Hartmann's doing. Now he would undo it, and in the process make himself the candidate of choice. Already the tide of the convention had turned away from Kennedy and Carter. With the delegates now absolved of their first vote commitment, they were free to elect the candidate of their choice—in the last ballot, Hartmann had placed a rising third. Gregg smiled despite the cameras aimed toward him: the rioting of the night before had given him a pleasure that he had not thought he would ever feel—so much passion had nearly overwhelmed him, a strange melding of lusts.
The line of Guardsmen began to shift as the jokers approached. They spilled out all along the length of Chrystie, shouting slogans and brandishing signs. Bullhorns blared orders and curses back and forth; Gregg could hear the taunts of the jokers as the Guardsmen formed a line of bayonets. At the intersection of Delancey Street, Gregg saw the hovering shell of the Turtle above the Guardsmen; there, at least, the protesters were kept back without harm. Farther south toward the main gates, where Hartmann stood in a circle of guards, it was not so easy.
The jokers came on, pushing and shoving, the mass of those behind propelling those who might have otherwise turned back into the park. The Guardsmen were forced to make a decision—use the bayonets or try to push the jokers back with linked arms. They chose the latter. For a moment, it looked as if some balance had been reached, then the ranks of Guardsmen began to slowly bend. With a cry, a knot of jokers broke through the line and reached the street. Shouting, the rest poured through. Once again, a running battle ensued, disorganized and confused. Hartmann, well back from the fighting for the moment, sighed. He closed his eyes as the impressions of his puppets began to reach him. If he wished, he could have lost himself then, could have plunged into that roiling sea of emotion and fed until satiated.
But he could not wait that long. He had to move while there was still some form to the conflict. Gesturing to the guards, he began to move forward toward the gates, toward the presence of Gimli.
Sondra was with the rest of the main cadre of the JJS. As they marched through the main gate, she tried again to tell Gimli about that strangeness she'd sensed in Hartmann last night. “He thought he was controlling all of this. I swear it, Gimli.”
“Just like any other fucking politician, old woman. Besides, I thought you liked him.”
“I do, but—”
“Look, why the hell are you here?”
“Because I'm a joker. Because the JJS is my group too, whether I agree with what you're doing or not.”
“Then shut up, dammit. I've got a lot to handle here.”
The dwarf glared at her and moved away. They were walking at a slow, funereal pace toward the waiting Guardsmen. Sondra could see them through those in front of her. Then the vision was gone as the jokers crowded into the constriction of the gates; hobbling, limping, making their way as best they could. Many of them bore signs of the struggle of the day before; heads wrapped in bandages, slings—they proffered them to the Guardsmen like badges of honor. The bodies in front of Sondra suddenly halted as they hit the line of Guardsmen; someone shoved her from behind and she almost fell. She hugged the person before her, feeling leathery skin under her hands, seeing lizard-like scales covering a massive back. Sondra cried out as she was crushed, pushing away with feeble arms, muscles wobbling inside loose bags of skin. She thought she would fall, when suddenly the pressure was released. She staggered. Her eyes caught the sun then; she was momentarily blinded. In the confusion, she could see fists swinging in front of her, accompanied by shouts and cries. Sondra began to retreat, trying to find a way past the conflict. She was shoved, and when she struck back, a club slammed against the side of her head.
Sondra screamed. Succubus screamed.
Her vision was lost in swirls of color. She could not think. She held her hands over the cut and the hands felt odd. Blinking away blood from the cut on her temple, she tried to look at them. They were young, those hands, and even as she gaped at them in confusion, she felt the sudden intrusion of other passions.
No! Go back inside, damn you! Not here, not in the streets, not with all these people around! Desperately, Sondra tried to place the controls back on Succubus, but her head rang with the concussion and she could not think. Her body was in torment, shifting fluidly in response to everyone about her. Succubus touched each of the minds and took the shap
The cameras followed Senator Hartmann's progress toward the gate where a few scuffles were just beginning. When his bodyguards tried to hold the senator back, he shrugged their hands aside. “Dammit, someone has to try,” he was heard to say.
“Oh, good stuff,” one of the reporters muttered.
Hartmann pushed forward. The bodyguards looked at one another, shrugged, and followed.
Gregg could feel the presence of most of his puppets in the area near the gate. With the Turtle holding back the jokers at the other end of the park, Gregg realized that this would be his best opportunity. Getting Gimli and the others to retreat now would turn everyone back. If the rioting continued into the night again, no matter—Gregg would have quite amply demonstrated his calm sureheadedness in a crisis. The papers would be full of the account the next morning and all the networks would feature his face and name prominently. That would be enough to ensure the nomination with a grand momentum into the campaign itself. Ford or Reagan; it wouldn't matter who the Republicans chose.
Keeping his face grim, Gregg strode toward the center of the conflict. “Miller!” he shouted, knowing the dwarf was close enough to hear him. “Miller, this is Hartmann!” As he shouted, he gave a tug at Miller's mind and closed down that molten heat of rage, laving it with cool azure. He felt the sudden release, felt the beginning of the dwarf's disgust at the vision around him. Hartmann twisted the mind again, touching the core of fright in the man and willing it to grow, a cold whiteness.