Wild Cards V: Down and Dirty by George R. R. Martin

  “I think I’m getting used to it. I’m still not certain I like it, though.”

  “And your creator?”

  “His genius is gone.”

  “So you’re on your own.”

  “No. I’m still compelled to obey him. Also to fight enemies of society in my spare time.” And break into safes, he thought, though he didn’t say it. Wearing a disguise, so no one recognizes me.

  She looked troubled. “I wish there was something we could do.”

  “There appears not to be.”

  “Still.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “You could learn physics. Metallurgy. That sort of thing. It could keep you going.”

  “Yes. I could enroll in night school.”

  “Why not full time?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  Kate laughed. “They can bar a person from the classroom for not paying tuition. I don’t know about a machine.”

  “Maybe I’ll find out.”

  The android looked at his partner. “Thank you. You’ve helped me get things in perspective.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

  Someone’s head appeared above the observation deck balcony. Wall Walker’s. The android started, remembering Mr. Gravemold. Why would someone disguise himself as a joker?

  The young ace stepped over the balcony and entered the bar.

  The waitress brought the dessert tray and a pot of coffee. Kate, looking balefully at the desserts, pushed back her chair. “Time for a bathroom check. And then”—she sighed—“I’ve got to get back to Statius and company.”

  The waitress moved the dessert tray to allow a customer to pass. The android recognized the nondescript brown-headed man who had been in the restaurant the day he’d spoken to Wall Walker. He nodded at the man but spoke to Kate.

  “Thank you for joining me,” he said. “I kept expecting an emergency of some sort to interrupt the dinner. An alien invasion, an ape escape, something.”

  Kate looked surprised. “Oh. You hadn’t heard about the ape?”

  The android’s heart began to sink. “No. I hadn’t.”

  “He’s not an ape anymore. He—”

  Modular Man raised a hand. “Spare me.”

  The lanky brown-haired customer looked at them. “In fact,” he said, “I’m the ape.”

  The android looked at him. The man held out a hand. “Jeremiah Strauss,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The android allowed his hand to be shaken. “Hi,” he said.

  “I don’t do the ape anymore.” Jeremiah Strauss seemed eager for company. “But I can still do Bogart. Watch this!”

  The ex-ape began to concentrate. His features slowly began to rearrange themselves. “I’m not gonna play the sap for you, sweetheart,” he lisped. His face looked like Bogart’s must have looked in his coffin.

  “Very good,” Modular Man said, appalled.

  “You wanna see Cagney?”

  He looked at Kate, saw her glassy stare. “Maybe some other time.”

  Strauss seemed stricken. “Too eager, huh?” he said. “Sorry. I just haven’t caught up yet. You think it was bad being dead for a year, man, trying being a giant ape for twenty. Jesus, last I heard, Ronald Reagan was an actor.”

  “Bathroom,” Kate said. She looked at Strauss. “Nice to meet you.”

  She fled. Modular Man shook Strauss’s hand and said good-bye

  The waitress pushed the cart back to the table and handed him his desserts. “We had a message for you a couple days ago,” she said. She gave him a wink. “A call from California. I thought maybe it would be a bad idea to give it to you when you were with another lady, though.” She reached into a pocket and gave the android a pink message slip. A long-distance number was written at the top.

  Welcome back. New phone number. Call soon. Love, Cyndi. P.S. Got your heart on?

  Modular Man memorized the number, smiled, crumpled the paper.

  Cherish, he thought.

  “Thank you,” he said. “If the lady should call again, tell her the answer is yes.”

  He reached for his desserts.

  New experiences were everywhere.

  Blood Ties

  VI

  IF THE SITUATION HADN’T been so deadly, it could have been funny. Modular Man vanishing over the rooftops with Croyd in his arms, and the joker squad and Tachyon gaping stupidly after him. Troll had cleared his throat, an explosion of sound like a road grader moving gravel. He offered the Takisian the limp figure of Bill Lockwood like a man presenting his prize catch.

  “Well, at least we’ve got this one,” he said timidly.

  “Bloody lot of good it does us! Well, I suppose I must treat him,” Tach had muttered pettishly, and they had all returned to the clinic.

  A few hours later and the mystery man’s body temperature was returned to near normal. He lay blinking groggily in the hospital bed confined by restraints. Tachyon drew up a chair and stared into the handsome, insipid face.

  “You’ve given us a devil of a time, you know that. Why on earth did you protect Croyd so desperately? You’re directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people!”

  To Tachyon’s chagrin the young man’s face screwed up, and he began to cry. “I was just lookin’ out for Croyd,” he blubbered while Tach mopped at the tears with his handkerchief. “He’s the only person who’s ever been good to me. He gave me his donuts. He made me an ace.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Aren’t you gonna read my mind?”

  “I’m too tired and cranky to read your mind.” Tachyon sensed that in some inexplicable way he had let the man down.

  “I’m … was Snotman—but don’t use that name—I’m an ace now.”

  “Snot…” Tachyon’s voice trailed away, and he helplessly shook his head.

  Memories like a stuttering slide show racheted through his mind. The horrible mucus-covered figure fleeing from the baseball-bat-wielding bouncer at Freakers … the Demon Princes tormenting the miserable joker until blood had mingled with the green mucus … the disgusting adenoidal sounds emerging from dumpsters where Snotman slept.

  “Oh, ships and ancestors, he made you an ace and you were so grateful…” Words again failed him.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” asked Bill Lockwood.

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a growing tumult in the hall: Troll bellowing like an outraged bull, and Tina’s voice high and shrill. A name emerged from the cacophony … Tachyon’s.

  Modular Man was circling overhead with Croyd wrapped in a sheet like an outraged mummy. Tachyon and Troll tumbled into their suits, and the android thrust Croyd into the isolation chamber. Tachyon had prepared it weeks ago; prison security glass, a heavily reinforced steel door. They were ready.

  Croyd punched his way through the glass in just under two minutes. And vanished beneath a pile of tackling bodies. Hours later the glass was replaced, and electrified mesh bolted to the wall.

  Croyd punched through that in under a minute. Electricity seemed to act as a stimulant.

  Troll looked up from where Croyd, bound hand and foot with steel shackles, lay beneath his nine-foot bulk. “Doc, I can’t sit on him for the rest of my life.”

  They replaced the glass again. Tachyon discussed steel shutters with the security experts from Attica. They shrugged and pointed out that the walls would never bear the stress.

  Then Finn had produced a wild and harebrained notion.

  “Consider cows,” he had remarked, pawing gently at the floor with a dainty forefoot. Victoria Queen had almost headed off for a sedative. “They’re so stupid they won’t walk over painted lines on the highway because they think it’s a cattle guard.”

  “Yes, but Croyd is a man, not a cow,” Tachyon explained patiently.

  “But he’s very suggestible.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I put him to sleep with brain wave entrainment and suggestion, remember?”


  They hooked him up and tried the same trick again. This time it didn’t work. So they painted bars on the window. And on the door.

  Croyd was very docile after that.

  As long as no one came in the room.

  Please go to sleep. Please, Croyd, go to sleep.

  Tachyon had made this prayer every day for the past four days, but there was no response from the nervously pacing albino beyond the painted glass of the isolation chamber.

  Tachyon had tried to give nature a little push. After the failure of brain wave entrainment he had pumped sleep gas into the room, drugged Croyd’s food. And Croyd remained stubbornly and infectiously awake. And each hour he was awake the virus continued to mutate.

  Croyd was a walking holocaust. And a decision had to be made. Tachyon stared down at his hands. Remembered the buck of the gun as he killed Claude Bonnell. Remembered the Burning Woman. Remembered Rabdan.

  Ideal. I’m tired of dealing in death. Spare me, fathers, I don’t want to do it again.

  Peregrine smiled up at him from the hospital bed, then grimaced and bit down hard on her lip as another pain washed through her. Her blue eyes were overly bright, and her cheerful manner seemed more manic than natural. Tachyon sympathized. He had to struggle to keep his smile in place. In the next few hours she would give birth, and they both knew what that experience could do to the fetus now struggling to free itself from her swollen body.

  He laid a gentle hand on the mound of her belly and felt the contraction shuddering through the muscles. “Cesarean might be easier on our boy.”

  “No. McCoy and I feel very strongly about this.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out getting coffee.”

  “You still insist on all this togetherness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Husbands are a damned nuisance.”

  “I’d expect you to feel that way, Tachy darling.” She managed to look almost sexy despite her condition. “And by the way, we’re not married.” Another spasm, and she panted, “How much longer?”

  “You’re just warming up.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Middle-aged mothers. It’s harder on you.”

  “No encouragement, and now an insult.”

  “Sorry.”

  She reached out to him. “Tach, I was teasing.”

  “Try to rest. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Troll stuck his head around the office door. “You don’t need me, do you?”

  “Why?”

  “Trouble at the Chaos Club. The call just came in.”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Strange, there hasn’t been a peep out of these goons for days. You’d think they’d have learned.”

  “Well, go and drive home the lesson again, Troll.”

  “You want to come?”

  “Peregrine’s in labor.”

  “Oh. See you later, Doc.”

  Tachyon checked with Tina and discovered they had moved Peregrine to the delivery room. In the locker room he stripped out of his peach and silver finery, shrugged into the green surgical gown, and scrubbed.

  The intercom buzzed. He flipped it on with an elbow.

  “Boss,” came Finn’s voice. “It’s raining jokers down here.”

  “I’ve got a baby to deliver.”

  “Oh, right.” Finn hung up the phone. The emergency room was filling up with young jokers sporting a variety of cuts and bruises. More were streaming in. Finn trotted to the nearest teen, then reared back when he noticed that the gash across the boy’s forehead was a clever makeup job.

  A six-inch length of a switchblade glittered beneath Finn’s nose.

  An ambulance roared into the bay and disgorged a party of heavily armed men. Finn raised his hands. His mommy didn’t raise no dummy.

  When the idea of seizing Tachyon’s clinic had first been proposed, Brennan had argued strenuously against the plan. But the word filtered down from on high: Tachyon can lead us to a woman who can sleep with a joker and cure him. Find her. And Tachyon needs to be taught a lesson. Get him.

  Brennan wasn’t surprised by the order. A year ago Kien had been using the lovely Vietnamese girl Mai to cure jokers. All it took was money—a lot of it—and you were cured. Then Brennan had killed Scar and rescued Mai, and now a new girl had arisen to take her place. A girl who cured with sex. What joker male wouldn’t pay a fortune to be cured by fucking a beautiful woman?

  The real irony was that Brennan had been given command of the assault. After robbing Kien of his curing machine he was about to provide the crime boss with a new one. It was too bad about Tachyon and his clinic, but Brennan had his own agenda to pursue.

  The only problem was that he’d been jumped over Danny Mao, and the Oriental didn’t appreciate it. On the other hand it was an indication of how well regarded Brennan had become within Kien’s byzantine network. The next step would probably be into the inner circle that surrounded Kien himself, and then Brennan’s revenge would be within reach. So he couldn’t refuse the assignment. He had worked too hard for too many years to pull down the facade that was Kien Phuc and reveal the rottenness that lay behind.

  Brennan rammed a clip into his Browning High Power and touched the pockets of his vest, making sure his reloads were handy. It had been agreed that deaths would be kept to a minimum. Only one person was earmarked for death—Tachyon.

  Eleven twenty-seven.

  Brennan, riding with the driver, peered ahead at the clinic. They’d be pulling in soon. Too bad about Tachyon.

  If you wish to find the unclouded truth, do not concern yourself with right and wrong.

  He had his own agenda.

  Right or wrong.

  McCoy was holding up pretty well. At least he hadn’t passed out and been carried out of the delivery room. He was even occasionally remembering to instruct Peri to pant, bear down, breathe. Her responses to these helpful reminders were direct and uncomplimentary. Another brittle scream tore from her throat, and she arched in the stirrups.

  Tachyon, eyes flicking between monitors and her dilated cervix, said softly, “You’re doing fine, Peri. Just a little more now.”

  He reached out and touched the unformed mind of the child fighting its way down the birth canal. Fear, fury at having its comfortable world so abruptly upset. (Definitely Fortunato’s child.) Tachyon stroked and soothed, watched the heartbeat slow from its frenzied pounding.

  You’re going to be all right, little man. Don’t give me the satisfaction of being right.

  How many times had he hunched between a mother’s knees, received a child, and had it turn to sludge in his hands? Too many.

  There was a crash that swung him around on the stool, and the alien gaped in amazement at the three armed men who had plunged through the doors of the delivery room. Peregrine reared up on her elbows and eyed them with loathing. “OH, CHRIST!”

  “What the devil do you mean by this?”

  Tach retreated slightly at the aggressive thrust of an Uzi barrel in his direction. The two other intruders merely gulped and stared with reddened faces at Peregrine’s private parts.

  “You’ve broken the sterile integrity of this room. Get out!”

  “We’re here for you.”

  “I’m a little busy right now. I’m delivering a baby. OUT!” Tach made shooing motions with his gloved hands.

  “Fuck this,” yelled McCoy, doing just what Tachyon had prayed he wouldn’t.

  Tach’s mind control dropped the cameraman in his tracks, and his seizure of the shootist sent the rounds spraying into the ceiling. Glass from broken light fixtures tinkled all about him.

  “McCoy!” Peregrine struggled in Tina’s grasp.

  “Lie down! He’s fine. He will live to be an idiot yet another day.”

  “Release my man or I’ll kill you. One of the two of us will get you, or these women,” shouted the nervous young Oriental. Dr. Tachyon released the gunman. “Now you’re coming with us.”


  “Gentlemen, I don’t know why you’re here, or who you are, but I will be at your disposal after I have delivered this child. I can’t slip away down the drain. I have to exit through those doors, so kindly wait for me in the scrub room.”

  He pulled his stool back into position between Peri’s legs and resumed his quiet external and internal monologue to mother and child.

  “McCoy,” panted the ace.

  “Asleep.”

  Peri’s screams and contractions were coming in waves. Tach didn’t like her pressure, but … Suddenly baby slid free. Reaching into the vagina, he cradled the tiny head on his palm and helped slide John Fortune into his new world.

  Tach tasted blood and realized he had bitten through his lower lip. He enfolded the child in waves of warmth and love and comfort. Don’t change! Don’t transform! By the Ideal, don’t transform!

  The baby lay in his hands, a perfectly formed man-child with a thick head of dark hair. The mucus was suctioned from the budlike mouth. Upending him, Tachyon massaged the tiny back, and a powerful yell erupted from the boy. Tach blinked away tears, wiped blood and mucus from the baby, and laid the child on his mother’s flaccid stomach.

  “He’s all right. He’s all right.” Her fingers played gently across the bawling child.

  “Yes, Peri, he’s perfect. You were right.”

  The final details were handled; cord cut, child given a more thorough wash and wrapped in lamb’s wool. Tachyon and Tina levered Peregrine onto a gurney, then heaved the snoring McCoy onto another. A face was thrust into the window of the delivery room. Tach hunched his shoulders and ignored it.

  “Doctor, what’s going on?” quavered Tina.

  “I don’t know, my dear, but I presume those armed gentlemen will tell me.”

  Brennan swept into the scrub room and stared at his men. They guiltily dropped the cigarette they had been sharing and studied the floor.

  “Where’s Tachyon?”

  “In there.”

  “Why in there?”

  “He was delivering a baby.”

  “God, it was gross.”