George RR Martin - WC 9 - Jokertown Shuffle

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Wildcards IX: Jokertown ShuffleJokertown Shuffle

Book 8 of Wildcards

Edited by George R.R. Martin

ISBN: 0-553-28852-0

The Temptation of Hieronymus Bloat

by Stephen Leigh

I don't know why I'm starting this or what I'm going to do with it or just who

it is I'm talking to. I guess ... I guess the reason is that I want someone to

remember what happened here when it's over. Lately I've been thinking that the

Rox won't last long.

It can't; THEY won't let it.

Do I need to explain who "THEY" is? I didn't think so. I can tell you this,

man-whoever you are-if you need to ask, then you ain't a joker, are you?

There's one question to answer, I suppose. No one ever really asks me directly,

but I always hear it, like a little tinkling chime in the clamor of thoughts. I

hear it whenever someone looks at me or even thinks about me: What's it like to

be so fucking gross? What's it like to be a head and shoulders sitting like a

wart on a body that takes up an acre of ground and feeds on sewage?

What's it like? God ... Okay. Let me try.

Find a room. A huge, empty space. Don't make it to( goddamn comfortable-be

certain that the floor's cracked and damp, the air's too cold or too hot, the

overall -atmosphere., tottering on the edge of gloom.

Then find a chair. A hard and unyielding and splintery one that makes you want

to get up and walk around after sitting in it for even a few minutes. Bolt it to

the floor in the middle of your room.

Get five hundred television sets. Bank them all around the chair, a Great Wall

of blank screens. Now wire each of the sets to a different channel, turn up the

sound, and switch on every one of the mothers.

Sit buck naked in your splintery chair in the middle of that ugly room before

all the televisions. Have someone chain you to that nasty chair, and then stack

a couple hundred lead ingots in your lap. Make sure the binding's tight so you

can't move, can't scratch yourself, can't hold your hands up to your ears to

blot out that terrible din, so you're utterly dependent on others to feed you or

clean you or talk to you.

Hey, now you're beginning to feel like Bloat. Now you have some idea of what

it's like.

I hear you. (I always hear you.) C'mon, you're saying. You have the ability to

read minds. Ain't that a gift, a little kiss from the wild card deck?

Okay, I can read your mind. I have Bloat's Wall, which keeps the nats and aces

away from the Rox unless they really want to be here. I have my own army of

jokers who protect me and care for me.

I make the Rox possible. I'm the governor. I have power. There's no Rox without

me. Bliss, right?

Yeah? Well, that's bullshit. Crap. A load of bloatblack. You think I really rule

this place? You gotta be kidding. Look, I used to play D&D. Most of the time, I

ran a character who controlled a little kingdom in the scenario our Dungeon

Master had dreamed up. Y'know what? That fantasy's about as real as the

"kingdom" I have here.

You can't hear what they're thinking when they talk to me: Prime, Blaise, Molly,

K. C., the other jumpers. Even the jokers, even the ones the wild card cursed.

"God, I'm glad I'm not like him" or " I don't care how much he knows or what

kind of powers he has, he's just a fuckin' kid.. . ."

I know. I know what they think of me. I know what they think of the Rox too. My

Rox is a convenient refuge, but if Ellis Island sank into New York Bay tomorrow,

they'd find another place. The jumpers would melt into the city's back alleys;

the jokers ... the jokers would do what jokers have always done: Shrug their

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shoulders-if they got 'em-and head for Jokertown.

So just what am I going to do? Threaten to take my basketball and go home, huh?

You think I'm likely to go anywhere at all? Man, I was lucky I managed to get

here three years ago when I was only the size of a school bus. Now... hell, the

blue whale's no longer the world's biggest mammal. I'm bigger than a whole pod

of fucking whales. What's it like?

You can't visualize Bloat. You can't empathize with me. It's not possible.

Every goddamn joker's hell is individual and private. So just leave it that way.

I hate being judge and jury. I even know why.

My parents were weak-willed. Hey, sure ... most kids blame it on their folks.

But why not? Mine were spineless, accommodating people who let the neighbors,

store clerks, and anyone in a position of authority push them around. They were

two nice people who would gladly change their opinions and back down at any hint

of opposition. They were two charming people, really, who let the neighborhood

scum intimidate and harass their son, the high school poet; their son, the "oh,

what a talented artist"; their son, the-one-with-his-head-inthe-comic-books.

They kept telling me (when I came home with bloody noses and black eyes and torn

clothes): "Well, if they're bothering you, why didn't you just walk away? Maybe

it's something you're doing. Concentrate on your drawing or your writing or your

schoolwork, Teddy. Play that strange fantasy dice game of yours or read a comic

book. When you grow up a little, they'll stop."

They were two compassionate people who, when Ted slammed into puberty by turning

into a slug the size of a subway car, didn't just abandon me. No. First they

called the Jokertown Clinic, and then they disappeared.

Gone. Vanished.

Well, Mom and Dad, Teddy sure as hell grew up, didn't he? I wish I were less

your son now, because just getting big didn't help and I'm still carrying all

your emotional baggage with me.

So how do I do what I want to do? How do you find a way to mix power with a

little compassion? How do you make the other players on the stage of the Rox see

that they're too damn shortsighted and selfish? How do you stay an idealist in a

world of greedy pragmatists?

They brought in a case for me to judge today. "The gov's court," they call it,

mockingly. Still, they bring in these cases because I insist on it. Okay, let's

be honest-the usual "justice" on the Rox is violent and final. Actually, they

come only when the antagonists aren't already dead or maimed.

I knew who was guilty before they dragged either one of them in front of me. I

always do.

Blaise escorted them, but Kelly was with the groupKelly whom I find so achingly

attractive, who is still so innocent in her way. I like to watch her; I like to

fantasize about how it might be if I were normal or if I were one of them. I

could read vague, contradictory feelings as Kelly approached. Darker, more

violent thoughts eddied from Blaise and K. C. Strange, another one of the

jumpers, while fright mingled with relief from Slimeball, the joker they were

hauling toward the Administration Building.

I told everyone around me that company was coming, and chuckled. My joker guards

came to attention around the lobby. Kafka came scuttling in from his workroom,

his mind still snared in the maze of blueprints he'd been studying. Around me,

jokers turned to watch: the ever-loyal Peanut, Mothmouth, Video, Shroud,

Chickenhawk, Elmo, Andiron-a dozen others around the floor or looking over the

lobby's high balcony.

Eddies in the currents of thoughts. I could feel the rest of the Rox too: File,

lost in rapture-ecstasy in some hovel in the north end of the island; Charon,

heading out from the Rox toward the siren call of some joker in New York. My

guards had tightened their grips on their weapons.

Blaise's little group entered the lobby noisily, throwing a blast of cold air

into the building. Slimeball was being dragged by main force between K. C. and

Kelly. Blaise was shouting before they were even halfway to me, ranting.

Kafka cleared his throat. His carapace rattled like a pair of cheap castanets.

At the same time, Shroud slammed the bolt home on his .22 Remington single-shot

rifle. I caught amusement from Blaise (fucking popgun). Blaise isn't the psi

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lord his grandfather is; his mindshields leak, dribbling thoughts like an

incontinent child.

Kafka began scolding Blaise. "Show a little decorum, please." Like a parent

lecturing his son--it went over about that well too. "We've discussed this

before. The governor deserves your respect. That's as much a part of your rent

as anything else."

Blaise glared at Kafka. I caught an image of a roach being squashed beneath a

huge foot. Little fucking insect. I laughed again. Then the thought drifted away

as he looked up at me. He titters like a goddamn schoolgirl. So fucking gross.

The smell's worse than usual.

Almost in response, a rippling went through me, along with a sense of release

and relief. I could feel the thick sludge of bloatblack rolling down my sides.

There was a sound: soft, squelching, nasty, like thick mud being squashed

between two hands.

"Governor," Blaise said then, and he gave the title a big mocking lilt. I

ignored him, paying more attention to Kelly than Blaise; she was trying,

unsuccessfully, to ignore my continuing defecation. Kelly's hands went to her

hips--a pose of defiance and arrogance that was totally at odds with her

thoughts. Poor ugly big thing ...

I smiled at her, a waif in torn jeans, her tits rounding under the Free Snotman

T-shirt, her eyes huge and the color of the deep sea under her soft hair.

"Governor," she said, echoing Blaise, but her voice was soft and pleasant, and

she smiled back at me.

A prom princess in rags. I found her much more attractive than, say, K.C. Kelly

wasn't a jumper, not yet. Prime hadn't initiated her-but then, Prime wasn't into

much except blond young boys in recent months, not since the Oddity killed

David. Kelly was one of the hangers-on, one of the jumper wannabees, a runaway

teenager from the city. There's a lot more of them than actual jumpers. Given

Prime's obsession with David look alikes, Kelly and most of them would stay

wannabees too.

I like to watch her. I stare when she walks by my building, and I dream about

Kelly, sometimes...

But Blaise glared at her now, and she went sullenly quiet. "If I may beg an

audience with Your Fucking Excellence," Blaise began.

Such defiance: a symptom of my difficulties. I had to laugh again, even though

the whole problem is that none of them take anything seriously. They play at

creating a new society; I can't get them to understand how important all this

is.

Kafka rattled in outrage. I felt my joker guards' minds become suddenly more

focused and intent. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of just sending Blaise,

Kelly, and K.C. away. The laughter had come, but I wasn't amused. Not really.

I could hear most of Blaise's thoughts. I knew that like Kelly and K. C. too-at

least part of Blaise's insolence was show, put on from simple peer pressure. He

didn't want to be weak in front of the others. No, not Blaise. In fact, he

didn't want to be here at all.

"I'm listening, Blaise. I always listen when a joker's in trouble. And

Slimeball's certainly a joker, isn't he?" I finished, and tittered, as he'd call

it. I paused, looking right at K. C. "I'm always listening. Always. Even though

some people are thinking I sound like some stupid fucking twoyear-old when I

laugh."

K.C.'s face reddened-I'd quoted her thoughts, you see. For a moment I felt a

little ashamed of myself. No matter how many times I demonstrate my ability, I

always get that reaction. People aren't used to having their precious private

thoughts stolen. They don't feel anything, they don't see me doing anything

unusual, so they forget.

Kelly's thoughts, at least, are usually kind.

Blaise was pissed. "Well, I stopped K.C. here from offing your precious joker. I

should have gone ahead and offed the mother, though. This is the second time

Slimeball's been in our food stores."

I knew that. I'd long ago caught the thoughts from Slimeball and K.C.

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"K.C. and Kelly caught him, and the little fucker sliced at them with a knife.

What you gonna do about it?"

I knew what Blaise wanted me to do. The image was very clear. His justice is

very black and white. Simple.

I glanced at Slimeball. He'd been radiating wordless chattering fear since the

incident, all shot through with unresolved hatred toward Blaise. His

salamanderlike skin was gleaming with sticky oil, the flat pads on the ends of

his fingers crushed into his palms. His bulbous eyes, vertically slit and

golden, were momentarily lost under thick translucent lids as he blinked. His

mouth opened; a forked snake's tongue wriggled out briefly from between snaggled

incisors, and then retreated.

"You lied to me," I said to Slimeball. "That's very, very bad." I tsked and

shook my head. "You promised you'd leave the food alone. I ordered you to stay

away, and I warned you about bothering them again. Remember? We're all one big

happy family on the Rox."

K.C. guffawed at that, but no one else laughed. "What happened, Slimeball?"

That's a mind reader's trick: just ask a direct question. It jars them away from

the stream-of-consciousness images and forces them to focus. I hardly listened

to Slimeball's words; I was watching his mind. I could sense his hunger all the

while he was talking. The words didn't matter-he'd gotten hungry, a common

enough thing on the Rox. A simple thing. He'd thought he could get away with

stealing from the jumpers. He'd been wrong. That's all.

Blaise broke in then. "Bloat, I want the problem taken care of. Permanently. You

do it, or I will," he said. "Make the fucker an example to everyone else."

He stared at me. I'll kill him, Blaise told me then in his mind, deliberately

and consciously pushing the words forward. Like he thought I might be hard of

hearing in my mind. You make sure Slimeball gets fed to the sewerage system, or

I'll do it myself. Either way, you eventually eat the mother. Your choice=

"Governor."

"I don't kill jokers," I answered him aloud.

He snorted at that. "The whole goddamn world kills jokers. What makes you so

special?"

I could've told him. I could've told him how it's a curse to always know. Hey, I

know everything. I know that the jumpers have stolen more food from the jokers

than the reverse. I know that hunger's a problem for both sides here on the Rox.

I know that Slimeball has about as much intelligence and moral sense as a

six-year-old, and while he was genuinely sorry now, he'd forget all this and

probably do it again.

It's easier not to know. But I always know the truth. I know all the facts.

It's hard to hurt someone whose most intimate thoughts you've experienced. It's

hard when you know that their pain is going to be broadcast back to you and

you'll have to listen to it. It's hard when you see that there's

never--NEVER--just black and white.

Wrong or right. Evil or good.

Not for me, certainly. 'There are things I've done ... Just by being here and

creating the Rox, I'm responsible for a lot of deaths. My Wall isn't kind, and

Charon doesn't stop for passengers who change their minds. Kafka tells me that

the waters of the bay under the Wall are full of skeletons. My victims,

directly. There's a lot of the violence in New York done by people who live

here. People I protect.

I tell myself that's only justice.

I stared down at Slimeball over the slope of my body. Filling your belly

shouldn't be a capital offense, no matter what the circumstances.

"What're you gonna do, Governor?" Blaise is as impatient as Kelly is lovely.

Glitteringly dangerous. As close to amoral as any mind I'd ever experienced. He

wanted me to kill over a few damn Twinkies.

Hell, I didn't know what I was going to do. Nothing felt good--there wasn't any

right or wrong here. When you know all the facts, that's what you always find

out. Every decision is unfair. Yet if I just shrugged this off, I'd undermine

any progress I've made in that last several months toward actually being the

governor. But I don't kill jokers either, and if I came down on the jumpers, I

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could lose their support they're as essential to the Rox as I am.

Look, it was all fucking fun and games at first. Big kid Bloat takes the Rox and

keeps the bad of nats away. But it kept getting more serious. It stopped being

some comic-book plot and started being real. The thoughts kept coming louder and

louder, and I couldn't shut them out anymore, and suddenly nothing was quite so

funny. David died under the Oddity's hands, everyone started grabbing for

control of things instead of cooperating, and the conditions for jokers in the

world outside just kept going into the fucking toilet. Blaise wouldn't let me

think. "Bloat? Hey, Bloat!"

I glowered down at them all, angry now. "Slimeball's at fault," I barked at them

finally. "I warned him about the food. But I'm not going to kill him for that,

Blaise. Slimeball, you're one of the bloatblackers now. You'll haul my shit

until I'm sure that you'll stay away from the jumpers. If you're found in their

part of the Rox again, they have my permission to do whatever the hell they

please with you. Understood?" Relief was coiled around disgust in Slimeball. K.

C. shrugged her shoulders. Kelly looked at me with her small smile.

Blaise scowled. "I will kill him if I see his oily face again," Blaise

proclaimed loudly. "I don't need your permission for that, Bloat."

"Blaise," Kelly began placatingly. "The governor's-" Blaise rounded on her, his

fist raised. I could feel the violence in his mind leaking out like molten lava.

"Stop!" I shouted, and the fury in my voice caused gunbolts to click back.

Blaise radiated a sudden fear. I could feel the heat on my face as I continued

to shout. "You damn well do need permission. I am the Rox. Me. Without my Wall,

the nats'll be swarming on this place like maggots on roadkill. They'll bury you

here. I hear your thoughts. You think I'm weak. `Bloat doesn't kill, he can be

pushed around.' I hear you."

I looked at the jokers watching the confrontation. I listened to their thoughts.

They were as violent as the jumpers. I knew I had to end this now or someone

would do something really stupid.

"Kafka," I said. "Blaise needs to bow to me before he leaves. I want to hear him

thank me for taking the time to judge this case." I paused. "And if he won't do

it, blow him away."

Blaise was confused. His mouth gaped. He thought for a minute of

mind-controlling my jokers, but there were a lot of us around, and he suddenly

wasn't sure he could handle us all. He sputtered. "You're bluffing. You ain't

gonna do that. That ain't your way." It was just mind static.

I giggled at him. "Try me. Go ahead. Hey, if you die here, the only thing that's

going to happen is that K. C. or someone else will take over for the jumpers.

Why, I'll bet K.C. might even be happy to have the competition thinned out."

K.C. gave me a dangerous look; I ignored it. "You'd be no loss to me at all,

Blaise. None at all."

Blaise hesitated, his thoughts all jumbled. I really wasn't sure what he'd do.

My jokers waited, patient and a little too eager. I think it was their faces

that decided him more than anything else.

He took a step back toward me and ducked his head stiffly.

I giggled. "You do that very nicely. And what else?" Scowl. Frown. Pucker.

"Thank you." The words were almost understandable. Inside, he was fuming: Fuck

you, you bastard.

"I'm not really into boys," I told him. "Not like Prime. Now if you were as

good-looking as Kelly..."

Blaise's face colored nicely; so did Kelly's. Blaise spun angrily on his toes

and stamped away to the laughter of the joker onlookers. K. C. followed with a

last look back at me;

Kelly gave me a long stare (poor thing) and went after them. Slimeball was

laughing, too, until Peanut took him by the arm and pointed him toward the

mounds of bloatblack. "Start shoveling," Peanut said.

And then we all laughed at Slimeball. Jokers are allowed to laugh at jokers.

Kafka looked up at me. Children. You all argue like such children. The

insectlike man sighed. He told me something that sounded like wisdom. Maybe it

was.

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"Bluffing is a very dangerous game," he said. "Especially with Blaise."

I would remember those words, later.

And Hope to Die

by John J. Miller

But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, Who is

neither tarnished or afraid....

-RAYMOND CHANDLER

Brennan woke suddenly, though the night was quiet and Jennifer was sleeping

undisturbed beside him. He wondered what had woken him. Then he caught again a

faint whiff of grease and gun oil, and sat up as the night was split by thunder

and fire.

He pushed Jennifer off the right side of their futon and rolled to the left as a

bullet seared his side and another ripped through his upper thigh. He gritted

his teeth, ignoring the agony that lanced through his leg as he dove naked

through the darkness. His first thought was to draw the fire away from Jennifer.

His second was to get the bastard who was doing the shooting.

There was a problem with that. Brennan no longer kept weapons in the house. They

were all locked away in the backyard shed as a repudiation of the life he'd once

lived. He regretted this decision as a stream of bullets tracked him while he

hurtled through the bedroom door into the interior of the house. There was the

sound of smashing glass, and a stabbing winter wind struck Brennan as the

assassin crashed through the bedroom window and followed him.

Brennan headed for the kitchen, stopped, and reversed his field as he heard a

second hit man breaking down the front door. He turned for the door that led to

the backyard. His only hope, he suddenly realized, was to get outside where he

could use his hunting skills to neutralize the numerical superiority of his

heavily armed opponents.

Brennan flung himself through the back door, dodging left and rolling on the

ground. Another assassin was waiting for him, but Brennan went through the door

too quickly for the killer to draw an accurate aim.

Brennan gritted his teeth against the pain lancing through his leg as he

sprinted across his meticulously raked sand garden, ruining the serenity of the

gravel-sculpted waves with footprints and bloodspatters. The assassin was too

slow to track him, and a fusillade of shots ripped into the ground at Brennan's

heels as he dove into the thick brush surrounding his isolated country home.

The cold night air frosted Brennan's breath as he stood naked on the frigid

ground. His bare feet burned in the snow, and his thigh throbbed as it dripped

blood, but he scarcely felt the pain as he crouched low in the snow-laden

bushes. A second black-garbed figure joined the one who'd been lying in ambush

in the backyard. They conversed in low unintelligible voices, and one of them

gestured toward the forest in Brennan's general direction. Neither seemed eager

to go into the darkness.

Brennan grimaced, forcing his mind into dispassionate rationality. His biggest

problem was time. His assailants could afford to wait him out. He was crouched

naked in a frigid winter night that was already sapping all the warmth from his

bones. He had to get to the shed behind the greenhouse before he became an

immobile hunk of frozen meat.

Just as Brennan convinced himself to move, the assassins were joined by a third

figure, who thumbed on a powerful flashlight and aimed it into the woods just to

Brennan *s left. Brennan's hopes sank even lower. Now it would be almost

impossible to get away. The hit men could jacklight him and shoot him down the

moment he moved. But if he stayed put, he'd freeze and save them the effort of

pulling the triggers. He scrabbled through the snow with fingers stiffened by

the cold and found a fist-size rock that was slick with ice. It was a poor

excuse for a weapon, but it would have to do. He shifted silently as the beam

from the flashlight swept closer. He stood to throw the rock; then suddenly

something fell from the loft window overlooking the backyard.

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A tiny figure, no more than ten inches high, landed on the shoulders of one of

the assassins with a thin high-pitched scream. There was the gleam of metal

flashing in the light of a slivered moon, and the figure screamed again and

stuck what looked like a fork into the back of the assassin's neck. The hit man

yelled in pain mixed with fear and swatted at the creature. It fell to the cold

ground in a pitiful little heap and lay unmoving.

Brennan's heart fell as he realized that it was Pumpkinhead, one of the manikins

he'd rescued from the tunnels under the Crystal Palace. There were about thirty

of them, children of a strange joker they'd called Mother. They'd been

Chrysalis's eyes and ears through the city, but with Chrysalis dead and the

Palace destroyed, Brennan had brought them to the country to live with him and

Jennifer.

And now they were supplying the diversion Brennan had prayed for. They leapt

screaming from the loft window, falling upon the assassins like living rain.

They were armed with whatever feeble weapons they could find about the

houseforks, kitchen knives, even sharpened pencils. They outnumbered the

assassins ten to one, but they were all small and weak. Brennan watched with

horror as the killers got over their initial surprise and swatted them down like

kittens.

Curly Joe was the first to follow Pumpkinhead out of the loft window, and

quickly into oblivion. He'd missed his intended target, who stomped him into the

ground with bone-crunching force, quickly silencing his thin reedy cries. Kitty

Kat managed to sink a kitchen knife into her target's ankle before she was

smashed by his flashlight. Lizardo jabbed his foe in the shoulder with a pencil

but was too weak to do much more than break the hit man's skin before the thug

broke his scaly neck.

Brennan clamped down on his anger and pity and moved as quickly as he could,

ignoring the pain running through his injured leg, ignoring the stones, sticks,

and sharp slivers of ice that tore at his bare feet.

He flitted through the snow-shrouded trees like a ghost, circling around the

A-frame and the greenhouse beyond. He stopped at the shed behind the greenhouse

and cursed. He'd forgotten the key. He drew himself back to try to batter down

the door, but a small hissing voice stopped him before he could strike.

"Boss! Boss, the key!"

It was Brutus, a foot-tall manikin with leathery skin that sagged in puffy

pouches about his gray, hairless face. Brutus had settled into the role of the

tribe's chief. He was more intelligent than most of the homunculi, but even he

was no brighter than a smart child. At the moment, however, he seemed to have

assessed the situation with remarkable accuracy. He tossed the key to the shed's

padlock to Brennan, who caught it with cold clumsy fingers and tried to fit it

into the lock.

Brennan fumbled a few times before the key finally clicked into place. He threw

open the door and took down the bow that hung in a bracket nearby, quickly

stringing it with the line dangling from one of its tips. It was only a hardwood

recurve with a sixty-pound pull, but it was powerful enough. He grabbed the

quiver that hung from the bracket and stepped back into the night.

Brennan no longer felt naked or cold. His anger spread from his gut outward,

warming him as he ran over the snow back to the house, Brutus following on his

heels.

The scene in the backyard was worse than Brennan had imagined. Tiny broken

bodies violated the calm serenity of his Zen garden. Crushed and pulped, the

manikins had fought fiercely and hopelessly against giants who could kill them

with a single blow.

Brennan cried out in sorrow and rage, freezing one of the assassins in the act

of squashing Bigfoot with the butt of his assault rifle. As the hit man looked

around with his rifle lifted, Brennan sank down to one knee, drew shaft to ear,

and loosed. The razor-tipped hunting arrow cut silently through the night and

struck the assassin high on his chest. He fell backward, slamming against the

wall of the A-frame, then crumpled forward and dropped his weapon.

An eerie cry of triumph rose from the living homunculi as Brennan drew a second

shaft, shifted aim, and fired before the other hit men could react. He gut-shot

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his second target, who was swarmed by the remaining manikins. The killer

screamed wordlessly and tried desperately, futilely, to crawl away.

The third assassin clicked off the flashlight he'd been using as a club, turned,

and ran back into the house. Brennan fired and saw his shaft strike home, but

the assassin kept moving.

Brennan nocked another arrow to his string and stood, listening. The assassin

being pummeled by the manikins had finally stopped screaming. The first one

Brennan had shot was dead.

"See to your people," Brennan told Brutus, then limped over to the back door. He

stood listening for a moment but could hear nothing move inside. He couldn't

wait long, even if the assassin was lying in ambush. He had to go in.

He scooped up the assault rifle dropped by the first assassin, then went through

the doorway low and fast. The house was still dark, still quiet. From the front

Brennan could hear the sound of a receding car engine.

He flicked on the bedroom light. The room was a shambles. The window had been

shattered, and glass lay all over the floor. Bullets had stitched the walls,

smashing the framed Hokusai and Yoshitosi woodblocks hanging over the futon

where Jennifer lay quiet and still as death, awash in a sea of blood.

Men liked his new body. It was young, had two functioning hands, and best of all

had ace capabilities that he'd quickly gotten use to. He could see how Philip

Cunningham had enjoyed being Fadeout. But there was one problem with the body.

It was not of his race. Kien wondered if that was the cause of the dreams he'd

been having lately.

His father had been visiting him, speaking softly of the good old days back in

Vietnam when Kien had worked in the family's small store. He had always been a

dutiful son, though the stifling life of a storekeeper in a small village had

bored him unmercifully. But he had stayed on until his father had been murdered

by the French in the last days of the Vietnamese rebellion against their

European masters. Then, and only then, had Kien moved on to the city and joined

the army of the fledgling Republic of Vietnam. Of course, he had had to change

some things to blend in. There was no way he was going to have a successful

military career with an ethnic Chinese name among the extremely prejudiced

Vietnamese.

"Once again you have abandoned us," Old Dad told him, waving the cane that he

often used to emphasize his arguments. "First you turned your back on your

family when you pretended to be Vietnamese and took the name Kien Phuc. And now

you go even further. You've become a white man."

It was difficult to argue with a dream, but Kien tried. "No, Father," he

explained patiently, "I have abandoned no one. This is all part of my plan, a

misdirection to finish off my enemies."

The spectre snorted, unconvinced. "You always were a tricky one, boy, I'll give

you that."

"Tonight," Kien said, "Captain Brennan dies. And his bitch who'd taken half my

hand." He smiled at his father. "That will be the second woman of his I've

killed. Too bad he won't live to realize that."

"And after this Brennan?"

"After Brennan, then Tachyon. He knows too much, and he could easily discover my

newest secret, that I still live in the body of Philip Cunningham. Tachyon has

to die."

"When?" his father asked.

"Soon. Today. When the Egrets return with the heads of Brennan and his bitch."

Old Dad frowned. "It sounds like you're planning on keeping that body," he said.

Kien shook his new head. "Only until my enemies are dead."

"Have you ever run out of enemies, my son?" Kien smiled.

Brutus climbed up the back of the car seat and dropped down onto the van's

passenger side. "Miss Jennifer has stopped bleeding, but she looks funny."

"Funny?" Brennan asked, not daring to stop even for a moment to check on

Jennifer's condition.

"She's getting clear, like she's fading," the manikin said. Brennan gritted his

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teeth, concentrating on his driving, afraid to give full vent to his feelings.

Since entering the city limits, he'd kept the van at the speed limit. He

couldn't afford to be stopped by a traffic cop, not with Jennifer's life hanging

so tenuously that any delay might be fatal.

He'd driven like a madman down Route 17 before reaching the city. The old road

was narrower and more twisting than the Thruway but was also darker, had less

traffic, and was rarely patrolled by the state troopers. And rocketing along the

road like a meteor on wheels, he needed a quiet, unpoliced road.

He fought to keep his attention on driving. His mind kept wandering back nearly

sixteen years to a situation that was achingly similar to this one.

It was back in Nam. Brennan and his men had captured documents that contained

enough evidence to connect General Kien solidly with all his various criminal

activities, from prostitution to drug running to consorting with the North

Vietnamese. But they never reached base with the evidence. Brennan and his men

were ambushed while waiting for their pickup. It had all been a setup by Kien.

In fact, the general personally put a bullet through the head of Sergeant

Gulgowski and taken the briefcase with the incriminating documents. Brennan,

momentarily paralyzed by a bullet-creased forehead, was lying in the jungle

surrounding the landing zone. He'd witnessed the slaughter of all his men but

had been unable to do anything about it.

It had taken Brennan nearly a week to walk out of the jungle. Once he reached

base, exhausted and more than a little delirious from wounds, infection, and

fever, he made the mistake of denouncing Kien to his commanding officer. For his

trouble Brennan was nearly thrown in the stockade. Somehow he managed to control

himself, and rather than a court-martial he was let off with a warning to leave

General Kien alone.

That night he'd returned to Ann-Marie, his FrenchVietnamese wife. She'd thought

he was dead. Pregnant with their first child, she cried in his arms with relief,

then they made love, careful of their son swelling her usually lithe form. As

they slept, Kien's assassins crept into their bedroom to silence Brennan

permanently. They missed their prime target, but Ann-Marie had died in her

husband's arms, and their son had died with her.

"There's the entrance," Brutus said, yanking Brennan back into the present.

He pulled into the curb before the Blythe van Rensselaer Memorial Clinic, threw

the door open, and limped around the front of the van before the sound of

screeching brakes had died on the still night air. A fine snow fell like a

freezing mist, the tiny flakes clinging momentarily to Brennan's face before

melting in his body warmth.

He went through the double glass doors that whooshed open automatically as he

approached and looked around the lobby. It was deserted except for an old joker

who seemed to be sleeping in one of the uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs and

a tired-looking nurse who was scanning a sheaf of papers behind the registration

counter. He went up to her.

"Is Tachyon in? There's an emergency-"

The nurse sighed and looked at Brennan with weary eyes old beyond her years. He

wondered briefly how many people had said these very words to her, how many

desperate life-and-death situations she'd had to deal with.

"Dr. Tachyon is busy now. Dr. Havero is on call."

"I need Tachyon's expertise=" Brennan began, then stopped.

From somewhere came the faint whiff of salt and fish and briny water. From

somewhere came the unmistakable tang of the sea.

Brennan whirled around. A cluster of vending machines was set off in the corner

of the receiving area, offering soft drinks, soda, and candy. Standing before

one of them was a huge figure in priestly robes, humming softly to himself as he

made his selection.

"Father Squid!" Brennan cried.

The priest turned his head toward the reception desk, the nictitating membranes

covering his eyes blinking rapidly in surprise. "Daniel?"

Father Squid was a stout joker, huge in his priestly cassock. A few inches

taller than Brennan, he weighed about a hundred pounds more. He looked solid,

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not blubbery, with broad shoulders, a thick chest, and a comfortably padded

stomach. His hands were large, with long, sinuous-looking fingers and lines of

vestigial suckers on their palms. He had a fall of tentacles instead of a nose,

and he always smelled faintly, not unpleasantly, of the sea.

He was Brennan's friend and confidant. They'd known each other since Nam, where

the priest had been a sergeant in the joker Brigade and Brennan a recondo

captain. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Jennifer's been shot," Brennan said tersely, "and she's fading. I need

Tachyon."

Father Squid moved quickly for a man his size. He rolled up to the desk with a

smooth, fluid gait and said to the nurse, "Call Tachyon, now"

She looked from the priest, a well-known figure about Jokertown, to the

mysterious stranger who'd just come barging in. "He's resting," she protested.

"Dr. Havero--"

"Get Tachyon!" Father Squid barked in the voice he'd used to chivvy know-nothing

joker kids when they hit the jungle for the first time, and the nurse jumped and

reached for the phone. The priest turned to Brennan. "Bring Jennifer in. I'll

get a gurney."

Brennan nodded and limped back to the van. "What's up, boss?" Brutus piped.

"We're going in," Brennan said shortly. He gathered together the blanket wrapped

about Jennifer and carefully lifted her from the van. She felt no heavier than a

child in Brennan's arms. She was fading away, unconsciously using her ace power

to turn insubstantial to the world.

"Put her here," Father Squid said, suddenly materializing behind him with a

gurney. Brennan laid her down carefully. Brutus leapt onto the cart and clung to

her blanket as Brennan and Father Squid wheeled her into the clinic's receiving

area.

Tachyon was standing at the desk, knuckling sleep from his lilac eyes. The

diminutive alien was still wearing a wrinkled white lab coat that looked like

it'd been slept in. "What's this all about? I told you-" He turned toward the

doors when they whooshed open. He stared for a moment, frowning, then his eyes

went wide in astonishment. "Daniel!"

He took a quick step forward, arms wide as if to embrace Brennan, then stopped

short as he saw the look on Brennan's face and remembered the circumstances of

their last parting. "It's... good to see you," he finished somewhat lamely.

Brennan only nodded. The two men had been through a lot together, from battling

the Swarm to fighting Kien and the Shadow Fists, but Brennan still found himself

unable to forget what had happened the last time they'd seen each other.

It had been over a year ago. Brennan and Jennifer had tracked down Chrysalis's

murderer, Hiram Worchester, to a hotel in Atlanta. Tachyon, who had also been on

the scene, made a fine little speech about how things should be handled in

strict accordance with the law. Tachyon, of course, got his way since he backed

up his speech by mind-controlling Brennan. Worchester, had later turned himself

in to the police and copped a pea bargain that kept him out of prison. Chrysalis

was dead, and Worchester had a suspended sentence. True, equitable justice.

Still, Brennan couldn't let himself brood on the past. He had another life to

worry about now. Jennifer's.

For the first time, Tachyon looked down from Brennan to the gurney. "What

happened?" he asked.

"Three men hit our home this morning," Brennan said shortly.

Tachyon leaned over and peeled the layers of blankets away from Jennifer. She

was translucently pale, the only color about her the crimson-soaked bandage that

Brennan had wrapped around her forehead.

As the ace known as Wraith, Jennifer Maloy could turn insubstantial to the

physical world. She could walk through walls, sink through floors, and pass

through locked doors as quietly as a ghost. But now, wounded and unconscious,

her mind adrift in the uncharted depths of a black coma, there was nothing to

anchor her body to the physical world. She would fade until nothing was left.

Tachyon looked up at Brennan. "We'll take her to a security room on the top

floor," Tachyon said in a low voice. "I'll examine her thoroughly there."

They went down the corridor, up an elevator to the top floor, then down another

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