Wild Cards V (39 page)

And then he danced. Slow and deliberate at first, the pace grew more rapid as Holley began to whirl around the stage. The audience stared, gaping.

She had seen this dance before—or something like it. Cordelia recalled the memory. Wyungare. She had seen the young aboriginal man dance in this manner deep within the Dreamtime, far into the desert heartland of Australia. This was a shaman's dance.

Holley's grin widened. He leaped and gyrated. Screamin' Jay Hawkins and James Brown could have done no better. Then Holley leaped into the shimmering, almost invisible webwork of silver sparks.

He whirled and his right hand came off, severed at the wrist with a gush of crimson smoke.

Someone in the audience gasped.

Holley continued to dance. The other hand. The right arm, up to the elbow. His left leg at the knee. Scarlet smoke fanned out like the curving trails of fire from a catherine wheel.

Cordelia became aware the director was addressing her. “Should we go to a spot?” The director's voice was taut.

It was all coming clear to Cordelia. “No,” she said. “No. Leave it. Broadcast everything.”

Buddy Holley whirled within the cradle of sparking tracers. He disassembled himself as the audience murmured and cried out.

From the chair beside her at the table Cordelia heard Polly Rettig say, “God almighty, it's just like with Kid Dinosaur.”

“No.” Cordelia said aloud. “It's not. It's the death and resurrection show. It's just—a joke. It's entertainment.”

“Entertainment?”
said Rettig. “He's … killing himself.”

“I don't think so,” said Cordelia. “He's transforming, but he's not dying. This is a shaman's trick.”

The last of Buddy Holley, a nearly limbless torso, wavered and tumbled to the stage. The body parts lay stacked in a haphazard heap. Curtains of bright smoke rose up. Sparks shot up in fountaining streamers.

The audience watched, uncertain how to react.

Cordelia felt calm and sure. She trusted Wyungare. She wondered if Holley's transmogrification was a direct result of the wild card virus. That would explain his apparent illness.

The pile of arms and legs stirred. The bones began to reconnect, joint to joint. The muscles and ligaments wound around them. The skin slithered onto the limbs, and the limbs rejoined the body.

Buddy Holley stood before them, whole again. He wasn't completely the physical original. This Buddy Holley was fitter, the spare tire around his waist and the bags under the eyes gone. His hair was a glossy black again, with no gray. His skin was smooth and unwrinkled.

The crowd began to clap. The cheering rose as the audience's collective tension released. Someone behind Cordelia said, “That's the absolute fucking performance of a lifetime.”

The guitar had also reassembled. Holley picked up the Telecaster and held it loosely.

He got what he wanted, Cordelia thought. “He's become a shaman,” she said aloud.

“Buddy Holley and the Shamans,” said a voice behind her. “Bitchin' name. After this, it'd sell like Fawn Hall's underwear. Man, this Holley could become a presidential candidate.”

Cordelia turned and saw it was the ICM man who had spoken. She gave him a frigid stare and turned back toward the stage. The new being that had been Buddy Holley smiled reassuringly. Then he brought his hand across the guitar strings. The chord throbbed as though resonating with every heart in the audience.

The sound
, thought Cordelia.
It's a trigger for states of heightened consciousness. This is the power of rock and roll.

Then Buddy Holley, the reborn man of power, stood before the awestruck audience and played the best version of “Not Fade Away” that had ever been performed.

It was, Cordelia suspected, a portent.

As Jack slipped away from the alley door of the Funhouse, he felt sick in heart and body.
I should have stayed for Buddy's encore
, he thought. But Buddy would do just fine.

There was the scraping on asphalt of something inhumanly large shifting its weight.

Jack stopped abruptly as a shadow deeper than the darkness in the rest of the alley fell across him.

“I figured a blue-ribbon fag party like this would draw all my little buddies,” said Bludgeon. “But I didn't even hope the first fucker would be you.” Without warning, his deformed right hand whistled out, catching Jack across the head and slamming him back into the brick side of a building.

Jack felt something give, bone or cartilage he couldn't tell. All he knew was that he was slipping away from what light there was. He wanted the darkness, but not yet, not this way. He tried to struggle. He was aware that Bludgeon was grasping him tightly and holding him upright. Bludgeon jerked loose Jack's belt and pulled down his pants.

“Got a little going-away thing for you, Jack. Something I figure you'll love. I bet your niece Cordelia'll eat it up when I get around to her too.”

Jack tried to will himself back into full consciousness. Then he felt what Bludgeon was shoving between his buttocks. Into him. Spreading and tearing. Nothing had ever hurt this much.
Nothing!

“I'll save the little girl for later,” said Bludgeon.

Jesus, thought Jack through the agony. Cordelia. “Let her alone you rat-bastard
cochon
!”

“Sticks and stones,” said Bludgeon, emitting a high-pitched giggle, “but only the Fatman can hurt me…” He thrust forward and Jack screamed.

Where was the
other?
Jack thought desperately, his brain seeming to heel over in a grinding haze of pain.
I need you. Now. I've got to transform. This once. Just to kill the son-of-a-bitch.

And then he felt the change coming.

He also knew he was dying.

Good, he thought. Good to both. And a surprise for Bludgeon.

Jack felt the teeth springing up as his jaw elongated.
Pestilence or claw, you son-of-a-bitch, you're gon' die
. The fierce anger carried him a little further.

Bagabond!
his thought shouted into the night.
Hear me! Save Cordelia.

I'll save the little girl for later
, Bludgeon's threat echoed. It all rippled into a void. And died.

The dead man plunged into darkness.

 

Blood Ties

II

THE SEVEN-TO-MIDNIGHT SHIFT WAS
just coming off. The midnight-to-five-
A.M.
shift was preparing to sally forth from the Crystal Palace onto the streets of Jokertown. Coughs, hacks, a few subdued laughs as they lined up at the long trestle tables to be served. Hiram Worchester, the immensely large and immensely elegant owner of Aces High, oversaw the feeding effort. It was his way of showing support, and a very welcome one to the always-tired Jokertown patrols.

Tachyon, seated on a table, with a booted foot propped on the chair, sniffed appreciatively.
Coq au vin.
He noticed Sascha pausing to speak with Hiram. The big ace jerked his head toward one of the secluded alcoves, and they moved away. Business of some sort, mused Tachyon. Everyone did business at the Crystal Palace.

The door to the Palace was flung open, and Mr. Gravemold surveyed the room. He brought with him an indescribable smell, and the chill of the grave seemed to wash from his tall, wiry person. Beneath his absurd porkpie hat a skull mask decorated with black and white feathers leered about the room. There were some muttered curses from the assembled jokers. It was going to be tough to choke down even Hiram's delicious food with Mr. Gravemold stinking up the place.

Tachyon, a scented handkerchief held to his nose, was about to slide to the floor and join the line when the brash voice of Digger Downs riveted him in place.

“Oh, no, you don't, Doc, interview time.”

“Why me, Digger?”

“Because you owe me for that mind control last week. Not nice, Tachy, not nice.”

“Digger, if you weren't so goddam irritating and unscrupulous—”

“Captain Ellis doesn't approve of this protection racket,” the reporter bulled ahead. “She says somebody's going to get hurt, and it ain't gonna be the bad guys.”

“I would submit to the good captain that the protection rackets have all been coming from one direction. And she's being unduly pessimistic. I think we can look out for ourselves. Ideal knows we've had enough practice,” he added dryly, recalling all the years when the police were curiously uninterested whenever a joker was beaten or killed, but Johnny-on-the-spot whenever a tourist howled. Things were better now, but it was still an uneasy relationship between New York's jokers and New York's finest.

Digger licked the tip of his ballpoint pen, a silly, affected gesture. “I know my readers will want to know why these patrols consist only of jokers. With you heading up this effort why not pull in some of the big guns? The Hammer for example, or Mistral or J.J. Flash or Starshine.”

“This is a joker neighborhood. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Meaning there's hostility between jokers and aces?”

“Digger, don't be an ass. Is it
so
surprising that these people choose to handle this themselves? They are viewed as freaks, treated like retarded children, and ignored in favor of their more fortunate and flamboyant brethren. May I point out that your magazine is titled
Aces
, and no one is panting to found a concomitant magazine entitled
Jokers?
Look around you. This is an activity born out of love and pride. How could I say to these people you're not tough enough or smart enough or strong enough to defend yourselves? Let me call in the aces.”

Which was of course precisely what he had been going to do until Des had opened his eyes. But Digger didn't need to know that. Still, Tach had the grace to blush as he shamelessly appropriated Des's lecture and passed it on to the journalist.

“Comment on Leo Barnett?”

“He is a hate-mongering lunatic.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Go ahead.”

“So who's going to be the white knight? Hartmann?”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“I thought you two were real tight.”

“We're friends, but hardly intimates.”

“Why do you think Hartmann's been such a friend to the jokers? Personal interest? His wife a carrier, or maybe an illegitimate joker baby hidden away somewhere?”

“I think he is a friend to the wild cards because he is a good man,” replied Tachyon a little frigidly.

“Hey, speaking of monstrous joker babies, what's the latest poop on Peregrine's pregnancy?”

Tachyon went rigid with fury, then carefully uncoiled his fists, and relaxed. “No, Digger, you're not going to get me again. I will never stop regretting that I let slip that the father of Peregrine's child was an ace.”

“Have a drink on me, Tachy?” asked the journalist hopefully, eyeing the almost empty snifter.

“NO!”

“Just a little hint to reassure all those breathless fans who are worried about Peri?”

“Oh, go away, Digger, do. You plague me worse than horse flies.” He waved a hand toward the jokers. “Interview them, and leave me in peace. I'm far less important in all of this than they are.”

“Jesus, Tachy! Modesty, from you?”

The Takisian stared hard, and Digger lifted the glass from the table and dribbled the remaining brandy over his head.

“I'm not … in a very good mood … right now.”

The journalist mopped at his wet neck. “No fuck! And that makes two, Tach. I'll be collecting on that next interview soon.”

“I'll count the moments.”

“Asshole.”

Tachyon stared morosely at his empty glass, then scanned the room for a waiter. Durg at'Morakh bo-Isis Vayawand-sa had been stolidly eating his way through an enormous plate of food, but Tachyon noticed that his pale eyes kept drifting toward the staircase. Chrysalis appeared and the Morakh killer, light-footed despite his incredible bulk, moved swiftly to her side. He lifted her hand with courtly grace and bestowed a fervent kiss upon it. Chrysalis snatched it back and stared coldly down at him. Drawn despite himself, Tach drifted toward them, trying to overhear. Suddenly Chrysalis's hand shot out, and the sharp slap echoed about the crowded bar.