Wild Cards V (27 page)

“Cognac,” spat Tachyon to Sascha, the Crystal Palace's blind bartender. He threw his blue velvet hat, sewn with pearls and sequins, onto the bar and tossed back the drink. He extended the snifter. “Another.”

A whiff of exotic frangipani perfume, and Chrysalis slid onto the stool next to him. The blue eyes floating within their hollows of bone stared impassively down at him.

“You're supposed to savor good brandy, not throw it down like a wino after a cheap drunk. Unless that's what you're after.”

“You sound like a recruiter for AA.”

Reaching out, Chrysalis wrapped one short red curl around her forefinger. “So what's the matter, Tachy?”

“This senseless gang war. Today an innocent caught in the crossfire. A joker child. I think he lives on this block. I remember seeing him on Wild Card Day last September.”

“Oh.” She continued playing with his short-cropped hair.

“Stop that! And is that all you have to say?”

“What should I say?”

“How about a little outrage?”

“I deal in information, not outrage.”

“God, you can be a cold bitch.”

“Circumstances have rather guaranteed that, Tachyon. I don't ask for pity, and I don't give any. I do what I have to do to survive with what I am. What I've become.”

He reared back at the bitterness in her voice. For she was one of his bastard children—born of his failure and his pain.

“Chrysalis, we have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“Prevent Jokertown from becoming a battlefield.”

“It is already.”

“Then make it too dangerous for them to fight here. Will you help me?”

“No. I take sides, and I've lost my neutrality.”

“Willing to sell weapons to all sides, eh?”

“If that's what it takes.”

“What is it you're after, Chrysalis?”

“Safety.”

He slid off the stool. “There is none this side of the grave.”

“Go be a fire-breather, Tachyon. And when you come up with something a little more concrete than an amorphous desire to protect Jokertown, let me know.”

“Why? So you can sell me out to the highest bidder?”

And now it was her turn to rear back, the blood washing like a dark tide through the shadowy muscles of her face.

“Okay, let's come to order now,” called Des, delicately tapping a spoon against the side of a brandy snifter.

The shifting throng gave a final shudder, like a beast falling into sleep, and silence filled the Funhouse. Mark Meadows, looking even more vacuous and absurd in the image-distorting mirrors of the Funhouse, was conspicuous for his very normalcy. The rest of the room looked like a gathering of carnival freaks. Ernie the Lizard had his rill raised, and it was flushed a deep scarlet under the emotion of the moment. Arachne, her eight legs catching at the thread of silk being extruded by her bulbous body, placidly wove a shawl. Shiner, with Doughboy huge and lumpish seated beside him, jiggled nervously in his chair. Walrus, in one of his loud Hawaiian shirts, fished a paper from his shopping cart and handed it back to Gobbler. Troll leaned his nine-foot length against the door as if ready to repel any outsiders.

“Doctor.”

Des dropped into a chair like a discarded suit. As Tachyon stepped forward to face the crowd, he wondered how much longer until the old man was forced to enter the hospital for that final stay.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you've all heard about Alex Reichmann?” There were murmurers of assent, sympathy, and outrage. “I had the misfortune to stumble across that scene only moments after the Shadow Fists had made their hit and succeeded in killing not only their intended targets but one of our own. I've only been back a few weeks. I've heard the stories of intimidation and vandalism, but I thought I could stay neutral. In the words of another, and perhaps more famous, physician: “‘I'm a doctor, not a policeman.'” That drew a couple of laughs.

“But the police are failing in their duty to us,” Tachyon continued. “Not perhaps out of deliberate neglect, but because this war far exceeds their capacity to keep the peace. So I'd like to propose today that we form our own peacekeepers. A neighborhood watch on a grand scale, but with a twist. Many of you fall into that uncomfortable category of joker/aces.” The alien nodded to Ernie and Troll, whose metahuman strength was well-known. “I propose that we also form response teams. Pairs of jokers and aces ready to respond to a call from any concerned citizen of Jokertown. Des has already offered the Funhouse as the central axis, the switchboard, if you will, for incoming calls. People who agree to be part of this effort will turn in times they would be available, and their work and home addresses. Whoever's on duty here will match a team to the problem spot and send them out.”

“Just a point, Tachy,” called Jube. “Those guys have
guns.
”

“True, but they're also just nats.”

“And some of my … er, the Captain's ‘friends' are impervious to bullets,” piped up Mark Meadows.

“As are Turtle and Jack and Hammer—”

“So you propose using aces as well?” asked Des, a slight frown between his eyes.

Tach looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”

“May I point out that Rosemary Muldoon tried that back in March, and then it was revealed that she was a member of the Mafia herself. It's left rather a bad taste in people's mouths where aces are concerned.”

Tachyon waved aside the objection. “Well, none of us are likely to be revealed as secret members of the Mafia. So what do you think? Are you willing to work with me on this?”

“Where does Chrysalis stand on this?” asked Gobbler. “And is it a comment that she's not here?”

“Well,” began Tach, shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” called out Gills. “If Chrysalis isn't here, it's got to mean something. She may know something.”

Tachyon stared in dismay at the sea of faces before him. They were closing down like night-blooming flowers retreating from the touch of the sun.

“Chrysalis and Des have always been two of the top figures in Jokertown. If she's not in on this, I don't trust it,” cried Gobbler, his red wattle bouncing on his beak.

“What about
me
?” cried Tachyon.

“You're not one of us. Never can be,” a voice called from the back of the room, and Tachyon couldn't pick out the speaker. A grinding weight seemed to have settled into the center of his chest at the woman's words.

“Look, we're not saying it's a bad idea,” said the Oddity. “We're just saying that without Chrysalis it seems like we're missing a major part.”

“If I get Chrysalis?” asked the Takisian a little desperately.

“Then we are with you.”

Digger Downs was trotting down the stairs from Chrysalis's private third-floor apartments. Tachyon glared at him and nodded shortly. He noted that the journalist was carrying the current issue of
Time
with Gregg Hartmann's picture on the cover and the caption “Will He Run?” and a copy of
Who's Who in America.

“Hey, Tachy. Des. What's the good word?”

“Beat it, Digger.”

“Hey, you're not still sore—”

“Beat it.”

“The public's got a right to know. My article on Peregrine's pregnancy did a valuable service. It pointed out the dangers of a wild card child.”

“Your article was a sensational bit of garbage.”

“You're just pissed because Peri got mad at you. You never are going to get a crack at her, Doc. I hear she and that boyfriend are thinking about getting—”

Tachyon mind-controlled him and marched him down the stairs and out the front door of the Crystal Palace.

“I'd consider that an assault,” said Des.

“Let him prove it.”

“You don't have a lot of sensitivity sometimes, Tachyon.”

The alien turned, leaned against the banister, and frowned down at the joker. “Meaning what, Des?”

“You shouldn't involve aces in what should be a joker project. Or don't you think we're capable of handling it ourselves?”

“Oh, burning sky! Why are you so touchy? There was no implicit slur in my inviting in aces. I would say the more firepower we have the better.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because they're hurting my people, and no one hurts my people.”

“And?”

“And Jokertown is my home.”

“And?”

“And what!”

“You come from an aristocratic culture, Tachyon. Do you by chance view us as your own private fiefdom?”

“That's not fair, Des,” he cried, but he knew that his hurt was tempered with a sudden flare of guilt. He climbed a few more stairs then paused and said, “All right, no aces.”

Chrysalis was waiting for them, seated in a high-backed red velvet chair. Victorian antiques littered the room, and the walls were filled with mirrors. Tach suppressed a shudder and wondered how she could stand it. And again felt a stab of guilt. If Chrysalis wanted to look at herself, who was he to judge her? He who in many senses was her creator. He frowned at Des, wishing the old joker had not raised so many uncomfortable emotions.

“So without me you've got no goon squad,” she drawled in her affected British accent.

“I should have known that you would have heard by now.”

“That's my business, Tachy.”

“Chrysalis, please, we need you.”

“What are you going to give me for it?”

Des seated himself opposite her, hands clasped between his knees, leaned in intently. “Make a gift to yourself, Chrysalis.”

“What?”

“For once in your life put aside profit and margin. You're a joker, Chrysalis, help your fellows. I've spent twenty-three years fighting for jokers, for this little piece of turf. Twenty-three years with JADL measuring my life by a few successes. Now I'm dying, and I'm watching it all erode away. Leo Barnett says we're sinners, and our deformities are God's judgment upon us. To the Fists and the Mafia we're just so many consumers. The ugliest, most hateful consumers they've got, but consumers nonetheless, and our town is their central marketplace. We're just things to them, Chrysalis.
Things
who stick their dope in our arms, and our cocks in their women.
Things
they can terrorize and
things
they can kill. Help us stop them. Help us force them to see us as men.”

Chrysalis stared at him out of that impassive, transparent face. The skull without emotion.

“Chrysalis, you admire all things British. Then honor an old British custom of granting a dying man his last request. Help Tachyon. Help our people.”

The Takisian held out his hand and twined his fingers through the fingers at the end of Des's trunk. Drew him close and embraced him. Said farewell.

 

Concerto for Siren and Serotonin

IV

WHEN CROYD AWOKE, HE
pushed aside mop handles, stepped into a bucket, and fell forward. The closet's door offered small resistance to the wild, forward thrust of his hands. As it sprang open and he sprawled, the light stabbing painfully into his eyes, he began to recall the circumstances preceding his repose: the centaur-doctor—Finn—and that funny sleep-machine, yes.… And another little death would mean another sleep-change.