George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (64 page)

A surprise, though—Brave Hawk votes for Stuntman!

But that bright moment is followed by the darkest of all. Jade Blossom, clearly—if the hoots of the men in the
audience are any indication—the most popular
American Hero
contestant of all—pointedly refuses to look at Jamal as she approaches the ballot box. Even as the big screen shows footage of them kissing (how the hell did Art and his team get this?) Jade Blossom votes for Rosa.

Toad Man votes—Stuntman! Then Pop Tart, Joe Twitch. Who did they go for? “Can you believe this? I’m losing count!” he says to Rosa.

“Don’t worry about what’s happening here,” she says, looking baffled herself. “This is only a few thousand votes. The audience is
half a million.”

Jamal doesn’t even see the footage of the hostage challenge, or hear Dragon Girl, or have any idea how she voted. He sees one of the Jetboy statues looking down at him. Now,
there
was an
American Hero
—he didn’t ask for it, he just did the job that had to be done.

Jamal tries to look at the scoreboard for the audience votes, but can’t see it. Of course, Berman and his team don’t want the Terrible Two to know what’s coming. Jamal can only look sideways at Rosa, as Peregrine goes into a torturous spiel about how these votes are now being integrated with those of the viewing public, and offers a tortured word: “Congratulations.”

Then he hears Peregrine say, “And the winner of
American Hero
is …” Jamal knows this will be dragged out, as if time weren’t already stretching. It is that endless moment between the football leaving the quarterback’s hand and its descent into the receiver’s—the hour it takes for a curveball to sail, spin, dive.…

Suddenly the studio explodes with sound—clapping, laughing, cheering.

He didn’t hear the name!

But Rosa Loteria has her arm around him. “Congratulations to
you
, Stuntman. You played the game just right.”

He won! Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, is the
American Hero!

The others are around him now, hands thumping him on the back (it can’t really hurt, can it?), the women kissing him (even Jade). He only registers a strange, slick, smooth hug
from Tiffani before he is with Peregrine at center stage. “Are you surprised?” she’s saying. The crowd is still making noise.

“Yeah.” Feeling more awkward in public than he has since fifth grade, he can only blurt the word. But he remembers being at the school earlier today, talking about being a hero—and he forms a speech that will dedicate this award to the aces lost in Egypt.

But before he can speak, he sees Berman flinging his arms around like a child of six in midtantrum. “What do you fucking mean ‘we’re not on the air’?”

The information strikes Peregrine at the same moment. Frozen smile on her face, still conscious of the cameras on her, she turns to Eryka, the production assistant. “Did I hear that? We’re not on the air?”

“Look,” Rosa says.

On the monitor showing the network feed, the
American Hero
finale is gone. In its place a middle-of-the-night scene in some European city—the hot, young South African reporter from NBC standing in front of some ornate building.

“What the hell is that?”

“The Hague,” Berman says. He reminds Jamal of a tire deflating.

“What’s the Hague?” Rosa asks.

“Home of the World Court.”

The reporter is saying, “… brought the strong man leader of Egypt, Kamal Farag Aziz, and his whole leadership, here to the Hague.…”

“Who brought them?” Jamal can’t see or hear.

“Your friends,” Berman says. “Our discards.”

“Michael, what are we doing?” Peregrine says. “Do we start over?” Berman shakes his head. “Well, fine,” she says, completely flustered. “This was going live to the East Coast. What about three hours from now?”

“You think that’s going to be over? Look at it!”

On the screen a group of men in chains, with CIA-style hoods, is being marched right to the front door of the Hague. Suddenly the camera finds John Fortune, grinning like…well, to Jamal, like Tom Cruise. Harrison Ford. Jack Nicholson. And there’s Lohengrin, Bugsy.

And Rustbelt
, looking more sure of himself now than he ever did during
American Hero.

They are the real heroes now.

Rosa turns to leave. “Where are you going?” Jamal asks her.

“Home, baby. Like everyone else.” She nods toward the audience. Those who aren’t staring at the screen, openmouthed in admiration and wonder, are jamming the aisles, talking on cell phones, clearly thinking only about the events at the Hague.

Jamal searches for his parents. They, too, are rising from their seats, shaking their heads. All this work! All this time! And he was ready, not just to accept the money, but to be the
American Hero.

He will. It is the role of his lifetime.

But no one will care.

Jonathan Hive

THE SRI LANKAN GUY
was short. He had a small frame and moustache that looked like an apology perched on his upper lip. His hair was close-cropped and thinning. Everyone else around the table was an ace—Fortune, Lohengrin, Drummer Boy, Curveball, Earth Witch, Holy Roller, Bubbles, Rustbelt, and of course Jonathan Hive himself. Ten people, only one of them a nat.

And yet, when United Nations Secretary-General Jayewardene spoke in his soft, thoughtful voice, it was his room. He owned it. He could have been an actor.

“The world, in its present condition, is not acceptable,” he said the way another man might have said
we should paint the house.
“You here are, I think, among the most aware of this fact. The injustices committed by Abdul the Idiot were outrageous and unacceptable, and I was as aware of them as each of you. Possibly more so. Like you, I tried to intervene. Unlike you, I failed.”

Jayewardene paused for a moment to let that sink in. Jonathan looked down at the table, suppressing a smile. It was hard not to be smug. Ever since they’d come to the Hague, they had been treated like celebrities, cheered and feted in a way that none of them had experienced since the first days of
American Hero.
Only it was different now. The half-hidden stares at restaurants, the strangers approaching them to ask for autographs or shake their hands. It all looked the same on the surface, but it felt different.

Because, Jonathan thought, this time it meant something. This time they maybe actually deserved it.

“The United Nations is, I firmly believe, a force of reform,” Jayewardene said. “The idea of universal human rights, of the dignity of life, and of the power of law and consensus cannot help but make the situation of the world community better. However, here, on my first assignment, I found myself playing the role of hostage.”

Jayewardene smiled gently and shrugged.

“I am not an ace,” he said. “I was, perhaps, overzealous. I have, however, learned from my error. I have been reminded that the organization I oversee is in essence powerless. I have been made to appear weak in the public eye, and appropriately so. I went to stop the genocide of Egypt, and the task was beyond me.”

Jayewardene’s gaze traveled around the table. Jonathan thought he knew what was coming.

“There are other atrocities in the world besides this one,” Jayewardene said. “There are dictators who traffic in slavery. There are governments who shelter terrorists and preach hatred. There are genocides. Many nations, even those that are members of the United Nations, ignore its decisions. And until now, my predecessors have relied upon the consensus of the governments of the world to take action. It has been a dull tool.”

“You said
until now,”
Fortune said, leaning forward. It was the important phrase. Jonathan noticed how much better Fortune was looking now that he and Sekhmet had agreed to let his body sleep from time to time.

Jayewardene smiled. Curveball and Earth Witch exchanged glances. Lohengrin’s chin was already sticking out about half a foot from his neck, and he was practically glowing with noble sentiment and pride. They all knew.

“I have called you all together to make a proposal,” Jayewardene said. “Through your actions, you have become symbols of something greater than yourselves. Men and women of the West and of the East, black and white, Arab and Christian and Jew, joining together to protect the defenseless.”

“Jew?” Jonathan said. “Who’s Jewish?”

Bubbles raised her hand. “My mother’s side,” she said. “They’re pretty secular, though.”

“Huh,” Jonathan said. “Well, who knew?”

“I would like you all to consider the good that you could still do,” Jayewardene said. “I have had a proposal drawn up for the creation of a special committee. The Committee on Extraordinary Interventions. It will function through my office, answering directly to the secretary general. And I wish to extend the invitation to each of you, in recognition of your service to humanity and to myself, to join as charter members.”

“You want us to go back out there?” Earth Witch asked. Jonathan could see the distress in her expression. He didn’t know if she was seeing King Cobalt, Simoon, and Hardhat, or the Egyptian soldiers she herself had killed. Curveball, he noticed, was looking mighty thoughtful, too.

“I want every dictator in the world to fear justice,” Jayewardene said. “I want every soldier ordered to slaughter innocent children to hesitate. I want every trader in slaves to sleep less peacefully. I will not ask that you place yourselves in danger if you do not wish it. Certainly, I cannot compel you.”

Lohengrin was on his feet, armor shimmering into being, sword appearing in his hand, raised in salute.

“My sword is yours to command,” Lohengrin said.

There was a moment’s silence. And then Jonathan watched as they slowly rose, each of them. He tried to understand why.

From the need to justify his father’s death, Fortune stood. From guilt over her success in burying men alive and despite her wounded body, Earth Witch. To keep her friend from standing without her, Curveball. From idealism and a competitive heart, Drummer Boy. From a belief in goodness that transcended reason, Holy Roller—well, his hand at least. Christ only knew when the last time was he’d stood up without assistance. From delight at not being discluded, Rustbelt. Jonathan didn’t know why he and Bubbles stood up. Maybe just because it seemed like the thing to do.

“Excellent,” Jayewardene said. “This is excellent.”

It occurred to Jonathan for the first time that the meeting table was, in point of fact, round.

The hall was like something from an old movie. Huge curtains lined the walls, and the crowd in the seats was bigger than a rock concert. The constant flashes from the press section would be the front pages of newspapers and magazines all across the world by tomorrow.

They were all sitting in surprisingly comfortable chairs on a dais. The slow ritual of presenting them with medals was over, but the ceremony itself promised to drag on for hours. While they waited for the next speaker to say more or less the same things, they fell—as bored people will—into conversation.

“Yeah,” Bubbles said, “now that you mention it, I was bothered by that. I mean, he did as much as Han or Luke, right? So why
wasn’t
he on the dais in the last scene?”

“Sidekick syndrome,” Jonathan said. “Whole rebellion was prejudiced against Wookies.”

“Oh, whatever,” Earth Witch said.

“You guys all know he’s just using us, right?” Jonathan said.

“Who?” Curveball asked.

“Jayewardene. I mean, he said it himself. Here he is, it’s his first day of work, and what happens? He gets kidnapped. I mean you have to figure he lost huge credibility there. And so now he has to make it up somehow, and we’re the most convenient way.”

“Does it matter?” Lohengrin asked. “Whatever drives him to do what is right, it is not important. Only doing what is right.”

“I find you charmingly naïve sometimes,” Jonathan said. The German bristled visibly, then laughed. “I’m just saying Jayewardene is posturing. He’s using us to seem more effective than he is.”