George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (31 page)

I needed to get fat again. One of the Discards would no doubt be happy to pound the heck out of me until I plumped up. And after that, well…

The future was bubbling up.

Jonathan Hive
Daniel Abraham

“SERIOUSLY,” JONATHAN SAID, “IS
there nothing going on in the whole fucking world besides this show?”

“Probably,” Gardener said as she leaned down to get another beer from the cooler on the coffee table, “but who really cares?”

The Discard Pile was getting more and more crowded with each passing week. With every new addition, Jonathan was more and more grateful he’d lost early and gotten his pick of bedrooms. Earlier this week, Spades had won their challenge, foiling Detroit Steel and his gang of bogus bank robbers, but Golden Boy and henchmen had handled the Diamonds. The Hearts had yet to face their own rogue ace, but the evening’s entertainment was watching the daily footage of Clubs getting their collective clock cleaned by the Aryan poster boy, Lohengrin. The studio was even providing the pizza.

It wasn’t a formal party, just a bunch of failures drinking cheap beer and talking smack about people who’d already done better than they had, and getting filmed so that every shitty thing they said could be used as a voiceover for the home audience.

“Here it comes,” King Cobalt said, pointing at the big plasma screen. “Watch this part.”

It was the same fake bank that Detroit Steel had failed to rob the day before, or one so much like it as to make no difference.

Lohengrin stood in the entrance in glowing white armor. The sword in his hand looked cheesy by comparison. The studio had made him use some kind of special effects prop instead of the actual force sword he could conjure from nothing.

“Hey,” the Maharajah said, “Lohengrin. Can that really cut through anything?”

“Ja,”
the blond, brawny ace said from the far end of the couch. “Steel, stone. Anything.”

“You want another beer?” Simoon asked him.

Jonathan watched their guest of honor waver between his love of beer and his disgust at the American interpretation of the word. He held up a hand to decline.

“Would you guys
watch?”
King Cobalt said, frowning under his mask.

On the screen, the preacher, Holy Roller, had become a near-perfect sphere, barreling down toward the bank like a huge Baptist bowling ball. The Lohengrin on the screen struck a heroic pose and brought his sword to bear.

The impact was intense. Lohengrin was blown back through the door into the bank—they’d already seen the footage from the interior cameras—and Holy Roller bore a stripe down his midsection that showed where the sword would have cleaved him nearly in half had it been real. With a visible sigh, the enormous ace played dead. And then a moment later, Lohengrin appeared again, unbloodied and unbowed. The Discard Pile cheered. Lohengrin grinned and ran a hand though his hair. “It was a very strong blow,” he said, as if apologizing for his victory. “The priest is a formidable opponent.”

On the screen, Toad Man and Stuntman were circling around to attack Lohengrin from both sides. They’d all seen this from a different angle before, too.

“Look!” King Cobalt said. “Here it comes!”

The doorbell rang.

“Pizza’s here!” Diver shouted. “Who’s got the money?”

Jonathan caught a glimpse of Fortune trotting up from the back of the house, digging for his wallet.

“Don’t forget to tip him,” Spasm yelled. Fortune nodded. Jonathan didn’t think anyone else caught the little flash of anger in the kid’s eyes. Jonathan sose and picked his way
across the crowded floor and through the cameras trained on the Discards. He caught up with Fortune in the atrium, signing a voucher. A stack of pizza boxes sat on the side table.

“Want a hand with that?” Jonathan asked.

“Sure,” Fortune said. “Thanks.”

The kitchen was as wide as a cafeteria. There was room to lay out all the boxes, lids open, and cheap paper plates besides. The fluorescent lights buzzed; Jonathan had heard two of the sound guys bitching about it.

“How’s he taking it?” Jonathan asked.

“Who?” Fortune asked.

“The new Ku Klux Klan spokesmodel,” Jonathan said. “Rustbelt.”

Fortune hesitated. “Not so well,” he said.

“You think he really did it?”

“Stuntman said he did,” Fortune said. “So it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Reality television,” Jonathan said, like he was saying “jumbo shrimp.”

A shriek and a peal of laughter came from the front room. Then King Cobalt’s voice saying “Watch this part.” Jonathan dropped a slice of pepperoni onto a plate and handed it to Fortune.

“Thanks,” Fortune said, “but I can’t. It’s for contestants.”

“Did you tip the delivery guy?”

Fortune stared at him.

“So, why can’t I tip you?” Jonathan asked. “Come on, this is all bullshit anyway. Have some food.”

With a half smile and something between a cough and a laugh, Fortune accepted the plate.

There had to be a way, Jonathan thought, to bring the subject up that was more graceful than
So, did you track down that magic amulet yet?

“So. Did you track down that magic amulet yet?” Jonathan said, wincing.

Fortune looked uncomfortable. Before he could come up with a polite evasion, Lohengrin appeared in the doorway, a little shamefaced.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is there any other beer?”

“Sorry,” Fortune said. “That’s all the studio got.”

“We are the losers, after all,” Jonathan said.

The German ace’s expression fell. Jonathan suddenly remembered Fortune and Curveball safely out of range of the cameras, and the plan, such as it was, sprang into Jonathan’s head full-formed. Which was to say actually, about half-formed, but that was enough to start with.

“I bet our man Fortune here knows some good bars, though. Right?” Jonathan said.

“Um,” Fortune replied.

“Do you?” Lohengrin asked, his face a mask of longing.

“Well…”

“Come on,” Jonathan said. “We’ll sneak out the back.”

Lohengrin’s smile was brilliant. Fortune hesitated for a long moment. He certainly wouldn’t have done it for Jonathan, but Lohengrin was a guest of the show, the kind of guy that Berman and Peregrine wanted to keep happy.

“I’ll buy the first round,” Jonathan said. Lohengrin’s eyes seemed to shine.

From the front room, Spasm yelled, “Hey! Where’s Captain Cruller? Chop chop, man. We’re hungry out here.”

“Okay,” Fortune said. “Let’s go.”

Here was the thing: writing a book meant finding something to write about. Sitting on the couch while Spasm talked about how he could have done better and King Cobalt shushed everyone was not the stuff of high drama. John Fortune—the guy who used to be an ace, whose father died, who wanted nothing more in the world than to regain his status and honor—was. But Fortune was also reticent and private and trying hard to make the best of his situation. And, in all fairness, if they’d been calling Jonathan by names like Captain Cruller and Fetchit the Wonder Gopher, he’d have been keeping a low profile, too.

What Jonathan needed was friendship. Shared confidences. The details of Fortune’s situation that would make the whole thing spring to life when he wrote it up. It was the
perfect counterpoint to the aces on the show—if there was just a way to get the man to relax and open up.

A way like, say,
lots
of alcohol. And a few other people to open up and tell stories on themselves first.

What the hell? It worked for the guys who sold videos of girls exposing themselves.

“So,” Jonathan went on, “there I was, in the girl’s locker room, nothing but a towel on. And Christy had this huge can of bug spray and this look in her eyes like she was just daring me to try and get away.”

Lohengrin chortled and gestured to the waitress.

“That can’t have gone well,” Fortune said.

“Yeah, we pretty much broke up after that,” Jonathan said.

“I had
einen
lover when I was at school,” Lohengrin said. “She was beautiful. Like a goddess. But she had another boy she was with as well. He tried to hurt me one night. With a knife. I had my armor, of course, but because of how he attacked, I had nothing else. I had to try to calm him while he keeps stabbing at me.”

Lohengrin made sad little stabbing motions and shook his head.

“Why didn’t you use your sword?” Jonathan asked.

Lohengrin shrugged. “I felt pity for him. He was just a normal boy and I was …”

Lohengrin gestured at himself. It should have been a statement of conceit:
I was the mighty Lohengrin against whom no mere nat could hope to compete.
But something about the guy made it seem okay. Lohengrin was an ace. It made a difference.

“I didn’t ever really date,” Fortune said. “My mom was always afraid that something might happen to me, turn my wild card. She had private investigators follow me. I had bodyguards to make sure nothing ever happened to me.”

“Wow,” Jonathan said, mixing sarcasm and sympathy in his tone, “and the girls didn’t go for that?”

“That is hard,” Lohengrin said. The waitress arrived, sweeping the empty bottles from their table and putting down fresh ones like she’d trained for Cirque de Soleil.

“I don’t know,” Fortune said. “It was just my life. It was
the way things were. And then when the card did turn, and I thought it was an ace…”

Jonathan clapped Fortune’s shoulder. The pathos of the guy’s life was amazing. Or possibly Jonathan was drunk enough to be getting sentimental.

“Did you ever get your mom to tell you about the amulet?” Jonathan asked.

“What amulet?” Lohengrin asked, as if Jonathan had coached the guy. Now Fortune had to tell the story, and in doing so remind himself of the hope that Simoon had brought him. The powers of Ra, whatever they were. A fate, a destiny. Something better than running trivial errands in the cocaine economy of Hollywood.

“You must find this thing!” Lohengrin said when Fortune had finished.

“I can’t,” Fortune said. “Mom doesn’t know where it is. Or at least that’s what she says.”

“You don’t believe her?” Jonathan asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. Or maybe she’s just so in the habit of protecting me from things that… you know, it’s just what she does. Maybe she has it in her safe or something, and just doesn’t want to risk it.”

“And what about you?” Jonathan asked. “Would you risk it?”

Fortune looked sour. There were the beginnings of tears in his eyes. How desolate it must be, Jonathan thought. How empty. To have been an ace, to have been important. Fortune was carrying not only his father’s death but also the dragging weight of being no one in particular. It was the saddest thing Jonathan had ever seen.

Okay, he was definitely getting maudlin now.

“I can open safes,” Lohengrin said.

Jonathan and Fortune both stared at him.

“Any safe. Just like this,” Lohengrin said and snapped his fingers.

“Aren’t Berman and your mom wining and dining the new guest ace? Noel whatsisname?” Jonathan asked. “The stage magician guy they brought over from England?”