George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (9 page)

For a long moment, nothing happened, and Ana wondered if he was another one of those nats who claimed vast mental powers. Then, one of the judges—Topper, the former government ace—sneezed. And sneezed again. And couldn’t stop sneezing. Then the Harlem Hammer sneezed. Both of them were incapacitated, wracked with violent seizures of sneezing.

And Downs—he gripped the edge of the table, caught in some seizure of his own. He wasn’t sneezing, but his eyes rolled partway back in his head, and his body twitched, almost rhythmically.
Oh my
, Ana thought.

Paul Blackwell crossed his arms and regarded them with a satisfied grin.

“Jesus Christ, would you stop that!” Downs shouted. The
seizures stopped and the three judges slouched over their table, exhausted.

Topper wiped her nose with a tissue and said angrily, “Mr. Blackwell—”

“I am
Spasm!
“ the guy said, punching both arms into the air.

“Fine. I think we’ve seen enough of your—I hesitate to even call it an ace—”

“Hold on, not so fast,” Downs said, and Topper rolled her eyes. “Er, Spasm. You say you can do this sort of thing to anyone?”

“Yes, sir!” he said, grinning. “At least, so far.”

The three judges leaned together to confer, and a moment later Spasm left the field, grinning. Downs scratched a note on the paper in front of him. Then the production assistant called, “Sixty-eight! You’re up! Ana Cortez!”

Ana’s heart raced. This was it. Finally. She spotted a guy up in the stands, waving both arms wildly. Roberto, among the spectators. He seemed so happy. The sight of him settled her.

Smoothing her hands on her jeans, she went to face the judges. The three looked so with-it, so assured of themselves. They’d recovered quickly from their encounter with Spasm, and their gazes were almost bored. Who could blame them? Surely they’d seen everything by now.

Downs asked, “What is it you do, Ana?”

She’d said it a hundred times by now. “I dig holes.”

“You dig holes.” His expression was blank.

“Yeah.”

“Well.” He shuffled some papers in front of him. “Let’s see you dig a hole.”

She stood alone at the edge of the field, a hundred yards of green spread before her. She’d never had an audience like this—not since she was little, digging mazes in the playground, when all the neighbors gathered and whispered,
brujita, es una brujita de la tierra
. This crowd didn’t make a sound. The silence marked thick anticipation.

She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see them.

Kneeling, she touched her medallion, then put her hands on the ground.

Had to be big. Something flashy. The holes she dug for work—nobody could see how far down they went. So she had to do something else. It didn’t need to be precise, no one here was measuring. Turn the hole sideways, and dig it fast.

Now.

Particles moved under her hands, the dirt shifting away from her. The ground rumbled as it might in an earthquake. It vibrated under her, no longer solid, sounding like the soft roar of a distant waterfall. She opened her eyes just as a trench raced away from her. In seconds a cleft opened, splitting the earth to the opposite end zone. A hundred yards. Wide and gaping, it was four feet deep, angled like a steep canyon. Earthwork ridges piled up on either side, and a gray film of dust floated in the air above it. She’d cracked open the earth like an egg.

A few spectators coughed. The air was thick and smelled of chalk. She breathed out a sigh. Her heart was racing, either from the nerves or the effort. Her hands, still planted on the ground, were trembling, like they still felt the vibrations of the earth. She brushed them together, wiping the dust off.

Still, no one said anything. Ana didn’t know what to do next. Stand up, she supposed. Go home. She’d shown them her trick, done what Roberto wanted her to do. Now he could take her home, as soon as the judges told her to leave.

The judges were staring. Ana realized: the whole crowd was staring, wide eyed, eerily silent.

She stared back for a long time before Downs pointed his pen at her. “You’re in.”

When he met her outside, the first thing Roberto said to her was, “Told you so.”

The next week passed in a haze. The production company took care of everything—plane tickets, schedules, publicity. Even a stipend. She gave the whole check to Roberto. They weren’t going to have her pay anymore, at least not until she got back. She assumed she’d get back quickly—that she wouldn’t win.

The production assistant with the tattoos, who called herself Ink, wanted to know what Ana’s name was. The show seemed to have hundreds of assistants, each with their own little task, clipboards and cell phones never far away.

“Your ace name,” Ink explained. “What we’re going to call you on the show.”

“I don’t have an ace name,” Ana said—then realized she did. She always had. She’d just ignored it.

“Well, we need to come up with one. Any ideas?”

“
Brujita
—” she started to say, then changed her mind. That was a name for a little girl. If she was going to do this, she ought to do it right.
“La Bruja de la Tierra
. That’s what people call me.”

Ink frowned. “That’s kind of a mouthful. What is that, Spanish?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Witch. Witch of the Earth.”

“Earth Witch.” She scribbled on her clipboard. “Yeah, cool, that’s great.”

She walked off before Ana could argue.

She’d grown up in a rickety trailer home at the edge of the desert, surrounded by Mexicanos like her, yet marked as different by her power, always the odd one. Now, suddenly, she’d been plucked from her old life and set down in a new one.

She certainly wasn’t the odd one here.

At the meet-and-greet party in the dining room at a fancy old hotel in Hollywood, the contestants met each other for the first time and learned their team assignments. All of it was being filmed.
Don’t look at the cameras
, Ana kept telling herself.

After a while, she almost forgot they were there.

She recognized the Candle, Gardener, and even Spasm from the Denver audition. Spasm waved at her across the room, hoisting his drink in salute. Everyone else was new, and she tried to figure out who they were and what they could
do. There was Diver, the woman who had real gills. Rustbelt, whose skin was iron, whose touch could turn a car to rust, and who clanked when he moved. Then there was Drummer Boy, already a star as the front man for the band Joker Plague. Hard to miss, at seven feet tall. Not to mention his six arms. Ana felt even smaller among these—sometimes literal—luminaries.

Of course, she was put on a team with Drummer Boy—who immediately announced that he preferred to be called “DB.” Then there was pretty blond Curveball. Ana was small and drab beside them.
Well, I’m not going to last long before they vote me off
.

“You look kind of nervous,” someone said. Startled, Ana turned to find Curveball—Kate was her real name—standing beside her.

“Yeah,” Ana admitted, “aren’t you?”

Kate shook her head, and her gaze gleamed as she looked around, taking in the old architecture and the crowd of people. “No, this is exciting. I can’t wait to get started.”

“So, I guess we’re all on the same team.” A man in his midtwenties, with scruffy brown hair and an amused expression, sidled up to them. He had his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

“You’re Jonathan, right?” Kate said.

Jonathan Hive offered his hand for shaking, which she did. Ana was prepared to slink into the background, but he noticed her and shook her hand as well.

“Some of us seem to be a little more comfortable with this than others.” Jonathan nodded at Drummer Boy, who was signing autographs for some of the crew.

With all those tattoos and that oddly shaped torso with its living drums, it was hard to look away from him. He seemed to enjoy being the giant in the room. He especially seemed to welcome the attention of the women.
American Hero
was blessed with—or rather, the producers had been sure to choose—a stunning selection of beautiful women, of almost every ethnicity. With six arms, Drummer Boy could flirt with all of them—resting a hand on one woman’s back, another on a different shoulder, while touching a strand of hair of a third.

The hair in question belonged to Cleo—or Cleopatra—who could teleport herself and whatever she was touching short distances, leaving behind a
pop
sound, as air rushed to fill the empty space. In response to DB’s touch, Cleo laughed and sidled up to the joker, tucking herself by his side. Already, Ana had caught her new nickname among the production assistants: Pop Tart.

“Hey, is that Peregrine?” Kate said, and Ana turned to look.

It was, emerging through a hallway from another part of the building, followed by a lanky young production assistant carrying a clipboard and a cup of coffee. The talk show diva and perennial celebrity’s wings fluttered slightly as she turned and addressed the assistant. Ana couldn’t hear, but the exchange seemed odd—overly familiar, maybe. One hand on her hip, Peregrine pointed a finger, and the assistant nodded meekly at what turned out to be a lecture.

That wasn’t a boss dressing down a subordinate, Ana realized. That was a mother admonishing her son.

Peregrine took the cup of coffee from him and turned her attention to another member of the crew, and the production assistant came toward them. He had coffee-and-cream skin and light, curly hair. Young, maybe twenty, his boyish face nonetheless had a tired look.

“Hi, I’m John Fortune,” he said. “Looks like I’ll be the traffic cop this afternoon. Let me show you where we need you to stand for the shoot.”

It took a half-hour for him to break up the party and herd everyone to where they needed to be for the publicity photo session.

John asked, “Anything else you need? Is everybody okay?”

“I think we’re fine,” Kate said, returning his smile. She looked around for confirmation. “Yeah?”

“Great. We’ll start in a couple minutes.” With a mock salute, he left them.

“I’d watch out for that guy,” Hive said to Kate. “Charm, multiethnic good looks—you may be doomed.”

“Oh yeah?” she said.

“Yeah, I saw the way he looked at you.”

“Kind of like how you’re looking at me?”

Hive quickly glanced away and pursed his lips. “So what if I am?” Kate blushed, and Hive sighed. “Whew, we haven’t been here an hour and we’re already making great TV drama.”

Another half-hour passed while the crew adjusted the lighting.

“Just like being on tour,” Drummer Boy muttered. He was nevertheless smiling.

“This show business stuff must be old hat to you,” Kate said, looking up at him.

“Old hat with a new twist. The scenery here’s way better.” He winked at Kate, who actually giggled.

Oh, this was going to be a long day, Ana thought. She was so out of her league.

A man Ana recognized from the audition detached from the mob of crew and regarded them all, a lord surveying his domain: Michael Berman, a network executive on hand to observe the proceedings. He was in his thirties, slick and intense. Even Ana could tell his suit and tie were expensive.

“This is fabulous. Thank you all for helping make this a reality. I can’t wait to see what happens over the next few weeks. And I’m sure I can count on you to make this the best show possible.” He rubbed his hands together with obvious glee.

“Is it a competition or entertainment?” Hive said with a smirk. “The world may

never know.”

“I don’t think I like that guy,” Kate whispered to Ana.

Ana had to smile. “I know what you mean.”