Wild Cards: Aces Abroad by George R. R. Martin

  “What were you thinking of?” Tachyon screamed. He thought he’d blasted all his fury out of him, all over the plainclothes officers who’d been stumbling across each other demanding to know how the terrorists could possibly have gotten away. But now it was back, filling him up to overflow. “Tell me, what did you people think you were doing?”

  “It wasn’t my people,” Neumann said. “It was the political branch of the Berlin Land police. The Bundeskriminalamt had nothing to do with it.”

  “It was all a setup,” Xavier Desmond said, stroking his trunk with leaden fingers. “That millionaire philanthropist who lent the ransom—”

  “Was fronting for the political police.”

  “Herr Neumann.” It was a Popo with grass stains on the knees of his once sharply pressed trousers, pointing an accusing finger at Tachyon “He let the terrorists go. Pauli had a clear shot at them, and he—he knocked him down with that mind power of his.”

  “The officer was aiming his weapon at a crowd of people through whom the terrorists were fleeing,” Tach said tautly. “He could not have fired without hitting innocent bystanders. Or perhaps I am confused as to who is the terrorist.”

  The plainclothesman turned red. “You interfered with one of my officers! We could have stopped them—”

  Neumann reached out and grabbed a pinch of the man’s cheek. “Go elsewhere,” he said softly. “Really.”

  The man swallowed and walked away, sending hostile looks back over his shoulder at Tachyon. Tachyon grinned and shot him the bird.

  “Oh, Gregg, my God, what have we done?” sobbed Hiram. “We’ll never get him back.”

  Tachyon tugged on his elbow, more trying to encourage him to his feet than help him. He forgot about Hiram’s gravity power; the fat man popped right up. “What do you mean, Hiram, my friend?”

  “Are you out of your mind, Doctor? They’ll kill him now.”

  Sara gasped. When Tach glanced to her she looked quickly away, as if unwilling to show him her eyes.

  “Not so, my friend,” Neumann said. “That’s not how the game is played.”

  He stuck hands in the pockets of his trousers and gazed off across the misty park at the line of trees that masked the outer fences of the zoo. “But now the price will go up.”

  “The bastards!” Gimli turned, whipping rain from the tail of his raincoat, and beat fists on the mottled walls. “The cocksuckers. They set us up!”

  Shroud and Scrape were huddled over the thin, filthy mattress on which Aardvark lay moaning softly. Everybody else seemed to be milling around a room crowded with heavy damp as well as bodies.

  Hartmann sat with his head pulled protectively down inside his sweat-limp collar. He agreed with Gimli’s character assessment. Are those fools trying to get me killed?

  A thought went home like a whaler’s bomb-lance: Tachyon! Does that alien demon suspect? Is this a convoluted Takisian plot to get rid of me without a scandal?

  Puppetman laughed at him. ‘Never attribute to malice what may adequately be explained by stupidity,’ he said. Hartmann recognized the quote; Lady Black had said it to Carnifex once, during one of his rages.

  Mackie Messer stood shaking his head. “This isn’t right,” he said, half-pleading. “We have the senator. Don’t they know that?”

  Then he was raging around the room like a cornered wolf, snarling and hacking air with his hands. People jostled to get out of the way of those hands.

  “What do they think’s going on?” Mackie screamed. “Who do they think they’re fucking with? I’ll tell you something. I’ll tell you what. Maybe we should send them a few pieces of the Senator here, show them what’s what.”

  He buzzed his hand inches from the tip of the captive’s nose.

  Hartmann yanked his head back. Christ, he almost got me! The intent had been there, for real—Puppetman had felt it, felt it waver at the final millisecond.

  “Calm down, Detlev,” Anneke said sweetly. She seemed exalted by the shootout in the park. She’d been fluttering around and laughing at nothing since the group’s return, and red spots glowed like greasepaint on her cheeks. “The capitalists won’t be eager to pay all we ask for damaged goods.”

  Mackie went white. Puppetman felt fresh anger burst inside him like a bomb. “Mackie! I’m Mackie Messer, you fucking bitch! Mackie the Knife, just like my song.”

  Detlev was slang for faggot, Hartmann remembered. He kept his last breath inside.

  Anneke smiled at the youthful ace. From the side of his eye Hartmann saw Wilfried pale, and Ulrich picked up an AKM with an elaborate casualness he wouldn’t have thought the blond terrorist could muster.

  Wolf put his arm around Mackie’s shoulders. “There, Mackie, there. Anneke didn’t mean anything by it.” Her smile made a liar of him. But Mackie pressed against the big man’s side and allowed himself to be gentled. Mólniya cleared his throat, and Ulrich set the rifle down.

  Hartmann let the breath go. The explosion wasn’t coming. Quite yet.

  “He’s a good boy,” Wolf said, giving Mackie another hug and letting him go. “He’s the son of an American deserter and a Hamburg whore—another victim of your imperialist venture in Southeast Asia, Senator.”

  “My father was a general,” Mackie shouted in English.

  “Yes, Mackie; anything you say. The boy grew up running the docks and alleys, in and out of institutions. Finally he drifted to Berlin, more helpless flotsam cast up by our own frenetic con­sumer culture. He saw posters, began to attend study groups at the Free University—he’s barely literate, the poor child—and that’s where I found him. And recruited him.”

  “And he’s been sooo helpful,” Anneke said, rolling her eyes at Ulrich, who laughed. Mackie glanced at them, then quickly away.

  You win, Puppetman said.

  What?

  You’re right. My control isn’t perfect. And this one is too unpre­dictable, too . . . terrible.

  Hartmann almost laughed aloud. Of all the things he’d come to expect from the power that dwelt within him, humility wasn’t one.

  Such a waste; he’d be such a perfect puppet. And his emotion, so furious, so lovely—like a drug. But a deadly drug.

  So you’ve given up. Relief flooded him.

  No. The boy just has to die.

  —But that’s all right. I’ve got it all worked out now.

  Shroud splattered over Aardvark like a solicitous mummy, bathing his forehead with a length of his own bandage, which he’d dipped in water from one of the five-liter plastic cans stacked in the bedroom. He shook his head and murmured to himself.

  Eyes malice-bright, Anneke danced up to him. “Thinking of all that lovely money you lost, Comrade?”

  “Joker blood’s been shed—again,” Shroud said levelly. “It better not have been for nothing.”

  Anneke sauntered over to Ulrich. “You should have seen them, sweetheart. All ready to hand Senator Schweinfleisch over for a suitcase full of dollars.” She pursed her lips. “I do believe they were so excited they forgot all about the frontline fighter we’ve sworn to liberate. They would have sold us all.”

  “Shut up, you bitch!” Gimli yelled. Spittle exploded from the center of his beard as he lunged for the redhead. With a scratch of chitin on wood Scrape interposed himself, threw his horny arms around his leader as guns came up.

  A loud pop stopped them like a freeze-frame. Mólniya stood with a bare hand upturned before his face, fingers extended as if to hold a ball. An ephemeral blue flicker limned the nerves of his hand and was gone.

  “If we fight among ourselves,” he said calmly, “we play into our enemies’ hands.”

  Only Puppetman knew his calm was a lie.

  Deliberately Mólniya drew his glove back on. “We were betrayed. What more can we expect from the capitalist system we oppose?” He smiled. “Let us strengthen our resolve. If we stand together, we can make them pay for their treachery.”

  The potential antagonists fell back away from each other.

&
nbsp; Hartmann feared.

  Puppetman exulted.

  The last of day lay across the Brandenburg plain west of the city like a layer of polluted water. From the next block tinny Near Eastern music skirled from a radio. Inside the little room it was tropi­cal, from the heat billowing out of the radiator that the handy Comrade Wilfried had got going despite the building’s derelict sta­tus, as well as electricity ; from the humidity of bodies confined under stress.

  Ulrich let the cheap curtains drop and turned away from the window. “Christ, it stinks in here,” he said, doing stretches. “What do those fucking Turks do? Piss in the corners?”

  Lying on the foul mattress next to the wall, Aardvark huddled closer around his injured gut and whimpered.

  Gimli moved over beside him, felt his head. His ugly little face was all knotted up with concern. “He’s in a bad way,” the dwarf said.

  “Maybe we oughta get him to a hospital,” Scrape said.

  Ulrich jutted his square chin and shook his head. “No way. We decided.”

  Shroud knelt down next to his boss, took Aardvark’s hand, and felt the low fuzzy forehead. “He’s got some fever.”

  “How can you tell?” Wilfried asked, his broad face concerned. “Maybe he’s naturally got a higher temperature than a person, like a dog or something.”

  Quick as a teleport Gimli was across the room. He swept Wilfried off his feet with a transverse kick and straddled his chest, pummeling him. Shroud and Scrape hauled him off.

  Wifried was holding his hands up before his face. “Hey, hey, what did I do?” He seemed almost in tears.

  “You stupid bastard!” Gimli howled, windmilling his arms. “You’re no better than the rest of the fucking nats! None of you!”

  “Comrades, please—” Mólniya began.

  But Gimli wasn’t listening. His face was the color of raw meat. He sent his companions flying with a heave of his shoulders and marched to Aardvark’s side.

  Puppetman hated to let Gimli off like this, walking away clear. He’d have to kill the evil little fuck someday.

  But survival surmounted even vengeance. Puppetman’s impera­tive was to shave the odds against him. This was the quickest way.

  Tears streamed over Gimli’s lumpy cheeks. “That’s enough,” he sobbed. “We’re taking him for medical attention, and we’re taking him now.” He bent down and looped a limp furry arm over his neck. Shroud glanced around, eyes alert above the bandage wrap, then joined him.

  Comrade Wolf blocked the door. “Nobody leaves here.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, little man?” Ulrich said pugnaciously. “He’s not hurt that badly.”

  “Who says he’s not eh?” Shroud said. For the first time Hartmann realized he had a Canadian accent.

  Gimli’s face twisted like a rag. “That’s shit. He’s hurting. He’s dying. Dammit, let us go.”

  Ulrich and Anneke were sidling for their weapons. “United we stand, brother,” Wolf intoned. “Divided we fall. As you Amis say.”

  A double clack brought their heads around. Scrape stood by the far wall. The assault rifle he’d just cocked was pointed at the buckle of the blond terrorist’s army belt. “Then maybe we just fell, comrades,” he said. “Because if Gimli says we’re going, we’re gone.”

  Wolf’s mouth crumpled in on itself, as if he were old and had forgotten his false teeth. He glanced at Ulrich and Anneke. They had the jokers flanked. If they all moved at once . . .

  Clinging to one of Aardvark’s wrists, Shroud brought up an AKM with his free hand. “Keep it cool, nat.”

  Mackie felt his hands beginning to buzz. Only the touch of Mólniya’s hand on his arm kept him from slicing some joker meat.Ugly monsters! I knew we couldn’t trust them.

  “What about the things we’re working for?” the Soviet asked.

  Gimli wrung Aardvark’s hand. “This is what we’re working for. He’s a joker. And he needs help.”

  Comrade Wolf’s face was turning the color of eggplant. Veins stood out like broken fingers on his temples. “Where do you think you’re going?” he forced past grinding teeth.

  Gimli laughed. “Right through the Wall. Where our friends are waiting for us.”

  “Then leave. Walk out on us. Walk out on the great things you were going to do for your fellow monsters. We still have the sena­tor; we are going to win. And if we ever catch you—”

  Scrape laughed. “You gonna have trouble catching your breath after this goes down. The pigs’ll be crawling all over you, I guar­antee. You’re such total fuckups I can smell it.”

  Ulrich’s eyes were rolling belligerently despite the rifle aimed at his midsection. “No,” Mólniya said. “Let them go. If we fight everything is lost.”

  “Get out,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah,” Gimli said. He and Shroud gently carried Aardvark out into the unlit hallway of the abandoned building. Scrape covered them until they were out of sight, then swiftly crossed the room. He paused, gave them as much of a smile as chitin would permit, and closed the door.

  Ulrich hurled his Kalashnikov against the door. Fortunately it failed to go off. “Bastards!”

  Anneke shrugged. Clearly she was bored with the psychodrama. “Americans,” she said.

  Mackie sidled over to Mólniya. Everything seemed wrong. But Mólniya would make it right. He knew he would.

  The Russian ace was cake.

  Ulrick swung around with his big hands tied into fists. “So what’s going to happen? Huh?”

  Wolf sat on a stool with his belly on his thighs and hands on his knees. He’d visibly aged as the thrill of high adventure ebbed. Perhaps the exploit he’d hoped to cap his double life with was going sour on his tongue.

  “What do you mean, Ulrich?” the lawyer asked wearily.

  Ulrich turned him a look of outrage. “Well, I mean it’s our dead-line. It’s ten o’clock. You heard the radio. They still haven’t met our demands.”

  He picked up an AKM, jacked a round into the chamber. “Can’t we kill the son of a bitch now?”

  Anneke laughed like a ringing bell. “Your political sophistica­tion never ceases to amaze me, lover.”

  Wolf hiked up the sleeve of his coat and checked his wristwatch. “What happens now is that you, Anneke, and you, Wilfried, will go and telephone the message we agreed upon to the crisis center the authorities have so conveniently established. We’ve both proved we can play the waiting game; it’s time to make things move a lit­tle.”

  And Comrade Mólniya said, “No.”

  The fear was gathering. Bit by bit it coalesced into a cancer, black and amorphous in the center of his brain. With each minute’s passage it seemed Mólniya’s heart gained a beat. His ribs felt as if they were vibrating from the speed of his pulse. His throat was dry and raw, his cheeks burned as though he stared into the open maw of a crematorium. His mouth tasted like offal. He had to get out. Everything depended on it.

  Everything.

  No, a part of him cried. You’ve got to stay. That was the plan.

  Behind his eyes he saw his daughter Ludmiyla sitting in a rubbled building with her melted eyes running down blister-bubbled cheeks. This is at stake, Valentin Mikhailovich, another, deeper voice replied, if anything goes wrong. Do you dare entrust this errand to these adolescents?

  “No,” he said. His parched palate would barely produce the word. “I’ll go.”

  Wolf frowned. Then the ends of his wide mouth drew up in a smile. Doubtless it occurred to him that would leave him in complete control of the situation. Fine. Let him think as he will. I’ve got to get out of here.

  Mackie blocked the door, Mackie Messer with tears thronging the lower lids of his eyes. Mólniya felt fear spike within him, almost ripped off a glove to shock the boy from his path. But he knew the young ace would never harm him, and he knew why.

  He mumbled an apology and shouldered past. He heard a sob as the door shut behind him, and then only his footsteps, pursuing him down the darkened hall.

>   One of my better performances, Puppetman congratulated himself.

  Cake.

  Mackie beat his open palms on the door. Mólniya had abandoned him. He hurt, and he couldn’t do anything about the hurt. Not even if he made his hands buzz so they’d cut through steel plate.

  Wolf was still here. Wolf would protect him . . . but Wolf hadn’t. Not really. Wolf had let the others laugh at him—him, Mackie the ace, Mackie the Knife. It had been Mólniya who’d stood up for him the last few weeks. Mólniya who had taken care of him.

  Mólniya who was gone. Who wasn’t supposed to go. Who was gone.

  He turned, weeping, and slid slowly down the door to the floor.

  Exhilaration swelled Puppetman. It was all working just as he had planned. His puppets cut the capers he directed and suspected nothing. And here he sat, at breath’s distance, drinking their passions like brandy. Danger was no more than added poignance; he was Puppetman, and in control.

  And finally the time had come to make an end of Mackie Messer and get himself out of here.

  Anneke stood over Mackie, taunting: “Crybaby. And you call yourself a revolutionary?” He pulled himself upright, whimpering like a lost puppy.

  Puppetman reached out for a string, and pulled.

  And Comrade Ulrich said, “Why didn’t you just go with the rest of the jokers, you ugly little queer?”

  “Kreuzberg,” Neumann said.

  Slumped in his chair, Tachyon could barely muster the energy to lift his head and say, “I beg your pardon?” Ten o’clock was ancient history now. So, he feared, was Senator Gregg Hartmann.

  Neumann grinned. “We have them. It took the Devil’s own time, but we traced the van. They’re in Kreuzberg. The Turkish ghetto next to the Wall.”

  Sara gasped and quickly looked away.