by Melinda M. Snodgrass
I
“I QUIT! I QUIT! HE DOESN’T NEED A TUTOR, HE NEEDS A WARDEN! A GODDAMN ANIMAL TRAINER! A STINT IN THE PEN!”
The slam of the door shook papers from the stacks that stood on his desk like the bastions of a white cellulose fortress. Tachyon, a rental contract hanging limply from long fingers, stared bemusedly at the door. It cracked open.
A pair of eyes, swimming like blue moons behind thick lenses, peered cautiously around the door.
“Sorry,” whispered Dita.
“Quite all right.”
“How many does that make?” She eased one shapely buttock onto the corner of his desk. Tachyon’s eyes slid to the expanse of white thigh revealed by the hitch of her miniskirt.
“Three.”
“Maybe school?”
“Maybe not.” Tach repressed a shudder as he contemplated the havoc his grandchild would wreak in the dog-eat-dog world of public school. With a sigh he folded the apartment lease and slipped it into a pocket. “I’ll have to go home and check on him. Try to make some other arrangement.”
“These letters?”
“Will have to wait.”
“But—”
“Some have waited six months. What’s another few days?”
“Rounds…?”
“I’ll be back in time.”
“Doctor Queen—”
“Is not going to be happy with me. A common enough event.”
“You look tired.”
“I am.”
And so he was, he thought as he walked down the steps of the Blythe van Rensselaer Memorial Clinic without bestowing his usual pats on the heads of the stone lions that flanked the stairs. In the week since his return from the World Health Organization tour, there had been little time for rest. Worries snapped at him from all sides: his impotence, which left him (one should forgive the pun) with a growing sense of pressure and frustration; the candidacy of Leo Barnett; the crime wars that were threatening the peaceful (peaceful, ha!) life of Jokertown; James Spector wandering loose, and continuing to kill.
But all of this seemed oddly distant, so unimportant, mere bagatelles when compared with the arrival of a new presence in his life. An active eleven-year-old boy playing havoc with his routines. Making him realize just how very small a one-bedroom apartment could be. Making him realize how long it took to find something larger, and how much more it would cost.
And then there was the problem of Blaise’s power. During his childhood Tachyon had frequently railed against the strictness of his Takisian psi lord upbringing. Now he wished he could apply some of that same severe punishment to his wayward heir, who could not be brought to realize the enormity of his sin when he casually exercised his psi powers on the mindblind humans that surrounded him.
But to be honest, it was not simply a matter of sparing the rod. On Takis a child learned to survive in the plot-ridden atmosphere of the women’s quarters. Surrounded as they were by other mentats, children quickly became cautious about the unrestrained exercise of their power. No matter how powerful an individual might be, there was always an older cousin, uncle, or parent more experienced and more powerful.
Upon their emergence from the harem a child was assigned a companion/servant from the lower orders. The intent was to instill in the young psi lord or lady a sense of duty toward the simple folk they ruled. That was the theory—in actual fact it generally created a sort of indulgent contempt for the vast bulk of the Takisian population, and a rather offhanded attitude that it really wasn’t very interesting or sporting to compel servants. But there were tragedies—servants forced to destroy themselves upon a whim or a fit of fury on the part of their masters and mistresses.
Tachyon rubbed a hand across his forehead and considered his options. To blather on about kindness and responsibility and duty. Or to become the most dangerous thing in Blaise’s life.
But I wanted his love, not his fear.
The boy reminded him of some feral woodland creature. Coiled in the big armchair, Blaise warily eyed his grandsire and tugged fretfully at the long points of the lacy Vandyke collar that spilled over the shoulders of his white twill coat. Red stockings and a red sash at the waist echoed the blood red of his hair. Tach tossed his keys onto the coffee table and sat on the arm of the sofa, keeping a careful distance from the hostile child.
“Whatever he said, I didn’t do it.”
“You must have done something.”
They spoke in French.
“No.”
“Blaise, don’t lie.”
“I didn’t like him.”
Tach drifted to the piano and played a few bars of a Scarlatti sonatina. “Teachers aren’t required to be your friends. They’re meant to … teach.”
“I know everything I need to know.”
“Oh?” Tachyon drew out the word in one long, freezing accent.
The childish chin stiffened, and Tach’s shields repelled a powerful mind assault. “That’s all I need to know. At least for ordinary people.” He blushed under his grandfather’s level gaze. “I’m special!”
“Being an ignorant boor is unfortunately not terribly unique on this world. You should find yourself with plenty of company.”
“I hate you! I want to go home.” The final word ended on a sob, and Blaise buried his face in the chair.
Tach crossed to him and gathered the sobbing boy into his arms. “Oh, my darling, don’t cry. You’re homesick, that is natural. But there is no one for you in France, and I want you so very much.”
“There’s no place for me here. You’re just fitting me in. The way you make room for a new book on the shelves.”
“Not true. You have given my life meaning.” The remark was too obscurely adult to reach the child, and Tachyon tried again. “I think I’ve found a new apartment. We’ll go there this very afternoon, and you can tell me just how you want your room.”
“Really?”
“Truly.” He scrubbed the child’s face with his handkerchief. “But now, I must return to work so I will take you to Baby, and she will tell you tales of your blood.”
“Très bien.”
Tach felt a momentary flare of guilt, for this plan was designed less for Blaise’s pleasure than to assure his good behavior. Locked within the walls of the sentient and intelligent Takisian ship, Blaise would be safe, and the world at large would be safe from him.
“But only in English,” Tachyon added sternly.
Blaise’s face fell. “Tant pis.”
Back to the clinic for five hours of frenzied work. Most of it unfortunately of the paper variety. With a start he remembered Blaise and hoped that Baby had been very entertaining. Collecting the child, Tachyon hurried him to his karate lesson. He then sat in the outer office reading the Times, a wary ear cocked toward the dojo. But Blaise was behaving.
Wild Card/AIDS Benefit Concert to be Held at Funhouse.
How like Des, Tachyon reflected. Interesting that this event was to take place in Jokertown. Probably no other forum in New York would host it. They would want to place plastic liners on the seats.
There were a number of emotional similarities between the two scourges. As a biochemist, he saw a different correlation, herpes to wild card. But a herpes/wild card/AIDS benefit would offer far too many unfortunate opportunities for sexual innuendo.
Warning: The Surgeon General has determined that fucking may be hazardous to your health.
“Well, I ought to live to be two thousand,” muttered Tach, crossing his legs.
Blaise bounced out looking adorable in his little white gee. There had been an initial tussle with the manager of the karate school over that gee. The standard color was black, but despite forty years on Earth, Tach still held a stubborn bias against the color. Laborers wore black. Not aristocrats.
The boy thrust his clothes into Tach’s arms.
“Aren’t you going to change?”
“No.” He climbed onto a chair to investigate a display of shurikens, kusarigamas, and naginatas.
“Is the language barrier a problem?” he asked Tupuola as he wrote out a check.
“No. Even in just the past few days his English has improved remarkably.”
“He’s very bright.”
“Yes, I am,” said Blaise walking across the chairs to hug Tachyon around the neck. Tupuola frowned, twiddled a pen.
“I wish you would show me some of this English improvement.”
“It’s easier to speak French with you,” Blaise said, lapsing into that tongue.
Tach ran a hand through his grandchild’s straight red hair. “I think I shall have to develop selective deafness.” He suddenly chuckled.
“What?” Blaise tugged at his shoulder.
“I was remembering an incident from my childhood. I wasn’t much older than you. Fifteen or so. I had decided that physical workout was dull. Only the sparring really seemed to matter. So I had taken to ordering my bodyguards to do the workouts for me.” Tupuola laughed, and Tach shook his head sadly. “I was an unbearable little prince.”
“So what happened?”
“My father caught me.”
“And?” asked Blaise eagerly.
“And he beat the crap out of me.”
“I’ll bet your bodyguards enjoyed it,” chuckled Tupuola.
“Oh, they were far too well trained to ever show emotion, but I do seem to recall a few telltale lip twitches. It was very humiliating.” He sighed.
“I would have stopped him,” said Blaise, his eyes kindling.
“Ah, but I respected my father and knew he was right to chastise me. And it would have violated the tenets of psi to engage in a long, drawn out mind battle with my sire in front of servants. Also, I might have lost.” He flicked a forefinger across the tip of the boy’s nose. “Always a consideration when you’re a Takisian.”
“The tenets of psi. Sounds like a mystic book out of the sixties,” mused Tupuola.
Tach rose. “Perhaps I’ll write it.” He turned to his grandchild. “And speaking of the sixties, there is someone I want you to meet.”
“Someone fun?”
“Yes, and kind, and a good friend.”
The corners of Blaise’s mouth drooped. “Not someone I can play with.”
“No, but he does have a daughter.”
“Behold me! Mark, I am home!” Tach announced with a swirl of his plumed hat from the front door of the Cosmic Pumpkin (“Food for Body, Mind, & Spirit”) Head Shop and Delicatessen.
Dr. Mark Meadows, aka Captain Trips, hung storklike over the counter, a freshly opened package of tofu balanced delicately on his fingertips.
“Oh, wow, Doc. Good to see ya.”
“Mark, my grandson, Blaise.” He pulled him from where the child had been hiding behind him and pushed him gently forward. “Blaise, je vous présente, Monsieur Mark Meadows.”
“Enchanté, monsieur.”
Mark flashed Blaise a peace sign, and Tach a sharp glance. “I can see you’ve got a lot to tell.”
“Indeed, yes, and a favor to ask.”
“Anything, man, name it.”
Tachyon glanced significantly down at Blaise. “In a moment. First I want Blaise to make Sprout’s acquaintance.”
“Uh … sure.”
They climbed the steep stairs to Mark’s apartment, left Blaise playing with Mark’s lovely, but sadly retarded, ten-year-old daughter, and settled in the hippie’s tiny, cluttered lab.
“So, like, tell all.”
“Overall it was a nightmare. Death, starvation, disease—but at the end … Blaise, and suddenly it all becomes worthwhile.” Tachyon halted his nervous pacings. “He’s the focus of my life, and I want him to have everything, Mark.”
“Kids don’t need everything, man. They just need love.”
Tach laid a hand fondly on the human’s skinny shoulder. “How good you are, my dear, dear friend.”
“But you haven’t told me anything. How you found him, and what’s the real poop on that shit that came down in Syria?”
“That’s why I say it was a nightmare.”
They talked, Tachyon touching on his fears for Peregrine, all of the events leading up to his discovery of Blaise. He omitted his final confrontation with Le Miroir, the French terrorist who had been controlling the quarter-Takisian child. He sensed that gentle, sensitive Mark might be shocked at Tachyon’s cold-blooded execution of the man. It was something that, in retrospect, Tachyon wasn’t very comfortable with himself. He reflected, a little sadly, that after an almost equal number of years on Takis and on Earth he was still more of Takis than of Earth.
He checked the watch set in his boot heel and exclaimed, “Burning Sky, look at the time.”
“Hey, great boots.”
“Yes, I found them in Germany.”
“Hey, about Germany—”
“Another time, Mark, I must be going. Oh, what a fool I am! I came not only for the pleasure of seeing you, but to ask if I might occasionally borrow Durg? He’s virtually immune to the effects of mind control, and I can’t keep Blaise with me constantly, nor can I continue to lock him away in Baby every time I have other responsibilities.”
“Durg as a babysitter. It sorta boggles the mind.”
“Yes, I know, and believe me it goes very much against the grain to have Zabb’s monster guarding my heir, but Blaise is like a Swarm mother among planets if I leave him unattended with normal humans. You see, he has no self-discipline, and I’m damned if I can see how to instill it in him.”
Trips dropped an arm over Tachyon’s shoulders, and they walked to the door of the lab. “Time, give it time. And relax with it, man. Nobody’s born a father.”
“Or even a grandfather.”
Mark looked down into the delicate, youthful face and chuckled. “I think he’s going to have a hard time relating to you as Gramps. You’re going to have to settle for—”
The sight in the living room knocked wind and words from Mark’s throat. Sprout was down to her teddy bear panties, daintily dancing while she sang a little song. Giggling, Blaise bounced on the sofa and manipulated her like a puppet.
“K’ijdad, isn’t she funny? Her mind is so simple—”
Tachyon’s power lashed out, and Sprout—suddenly freed from this terrifying outside control—burst into frightened and disoriented tears. Mark gathered her in a tight embrace.
“SIMPLE! I WILL SHOW YOU A SIMPLE MIND!” The boy jerked about the room like rusty automaton under the brutal imperative of his grandfather’s mind. “IS THIS PLEASANT! DO YOU ENJOY—”
“NO, MAN, NO! STOP IT!” Tachyon rocked under the hard shaking. “It’s okay,” Trips added in a more moderate tone as the devil’s mask that had slipped over Tachyon’s normally pleasant features faded.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” Tach whispered. “So very sorry.”
“It’s okay, man. Let’s … let’s just all calm down.”
Tachyon dropped into telepathy. Can you ever forgive me?
Nothing to forgive, man.
Meadows dropped to one knee before the sobbing boy, took him gently by the shoulders. “You see, you’re as scared as Sprout was. It’s no fun to be in somebody else’s power. And yeah, Sprout’s mind is weak, but that’s all the more reason for someone strong like you to be kind, and to look out for people like her. You understand?”
Blaise slowly nodded, but Tachyon didn’t trust the shuttered expression in those purple/black eyes. And sure enough, as soon as they were out on the street in front of the Cosmic Pumpkin, the boy said, “What a wimp!”
“GET IN THAT TAXI.”
“Ancestors!” Glass crunched under boot heels, and for a brief, breath-catching moment time rolled back, and the past clung like a gnawing animal at his throat.
Glass shattering and falling, mirrors breaking on all sides, silvered knives flying through the air … blood spattering against the cracked mirrors.
Tachyon shook himself free of the waking nightmare and stared at the carnage that filled the Funhouse. A janitor with enough arms to handle three brooms was busily sweeping up the broken glass that littered the floor. Des, gray-faced and frowning, was talking with a man in a business suit. Tachyon joined them.
“I’m not entirely certain your policy—”
“Of course not! Why should I think that twenty-four years of premiums paid on time, and no claims made, should entitle me to any coverage now,” spat Des.
“I’ll check, Mr. Desmond, and get back to you.”
“What by the purity of the Ideal is going on here?”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Please.” Tachyon pulled out his wallet, and Des stared down at the bills, a funny little smile twisting his lips, the fingers at the end of his incongruous trunk twitching slightly. The alien flushed and said defensively. “I pay for my drinks.”
“Now.”
“That was a long time ago, Des.”
“True.”
Tachyon kicked at a sliver of mirror. “Though God knows this brings it all back.”
“Christmas Eve, 1963. Mal’s been dead a long time.”
And soon you will be too.
No, impossible to speak such words. But would Des ever speak? While Tachyon, of course, respected the old joker’s desire for privacy as he prepared to die, it nonetheless hurt that he maintained his silence.
How am I to say farewell to you, old friend? And soon it will be too late.
The cognac exploded like a white-hot cloud on the back of his throat, banishing the lump that had settled there. Tachyon set aside the glass and said, “You never answered my question.”
“What’s to answer?”
“Des, I’m your friend. I’ve drunk in this bar for over twenty years. When I enter and find it busted all to hell, I want to know why.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I can do something!” Tachyon tossed down the rest of his drink and frowned up into Des’s faded eyes.
Des swept away the glass and refilled it. “For twenty years I’ve been paying protection to the Gambiones. Now this new gang is muscling in, and I’m having to pay off two of them. It’s making it a little tough to meet overhead.”
“New gang? What new gang?”
“They call themselves the Shadow Fists. Toughs out of Chinatown.”
“When did this start?”
“Last week. I guess they waited until they knew I was back in town.”
“Which means they made quite a study of Jokertown.”
A shrug. “Why not? They’re businessmen.”
“They’re hoodlums.”
Another shrug. “That too.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep paying both sides and hope they let me live in peace.”
“However long that’s going to be,” Tachyon muttered, and drained the fresh cognac.
“What?”
“Oh, hell, Des, I’m not a blind man. I’m also a doctor. What is it? Cancer?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The old man sighed. “For a lot of complicated reasons. None of which I want to go into right now.”
“Or ever?”
“That too is possible.”
“I count you a friend.”
“Do you, Tachy? Do you?”
“Yes. Can you doubt it? No! Don’t answer that. I’ve already seen it; in your eyes and your heart.”
“Why not my mind, Tachyon? Why not read it there?”
“Because I honor your privacy, and—” His face crumpled, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Because I can’t bear to face what I might read there,” he concluded quietly. He tossed more bills on the bar and started for the door. “I’ll see what I can do to make your hope a reality.”
“What?”
“That you end your days in peace.”
It had been the same story at Ernie’s and Gobbler’s Delicatessen and Spot’s Laundry and so many others that he dreaded to even recall them all. Frowning, Tachyon tore the skin from an orange, the juice stinging briefly as it hit a hitherto unnoticed paper cut. Goons out of Chinatown. Goons from the Mob, and him with his big mouth promising to do something about it. Like what?
He finished peeling the orange and popped a segment into his mouth. A light breeze ruffled his curls and brought the sound of Blaise’s delighted laughter. A rumbling call from Jack Braun sent the little boy scampering across the park, his red-stockinged legs a blur of motion. Braun leaned back, the football cradled in his big hand, and threw. He looked like a movie star; sun-bleached blond hair falling across his forehead, tan sinewy legs thrusting out from a pair of safari shorts, a very attractive, brilliantly colored Hawaiian shirt.
Tach threw crusts of bread to some interested pigeons. How ironic, Sunday in the park with Jack. Hated enemy transformed into … well, perhaps not friend, but at least a tolerated presence. It didn’t hurt that Jack’s visit had been prompted by a desire to see Blaise, which raised him in Tach’s estimation. To love Blaise was to find favor. And this outing had at least pulled Tachyon out of the brown study that had held him for days since his visit to the Funhouse.
The orange segment finally slipped down, and Tach’s stomach rebelled. With a moan he rolled onto his back on the blanket and fought down nausea. The wages of worry. Over the past few days his stomach had closed down into a tight and painful ball. He began a litany of problems.
The fear that lay like a palpable shadow over Jokertown.
Leo Barnett offering to heal jokers with the power of his god, and if they failed to respond, then clearly it was an indication of the depth of their sin. What if he became president?
Peregrine. In a month her child was due. The ultrasound he’d run two days ago still indicated a normal, viable fetus, but Tach knew with soul-deep horror what the stress of the birth experience could do to a wild card babe. Blood and Line, let this little one be normal. If it wasn’t, it would destroy her.
And he still hadn’t been by the Jokertown precinct to work with a police artist on the preparation of a drawing of James Spector.…
A girl went jogging by, an Afghan hound loping at her heels. A sheen of sweat brought a golden glow to her skin, and several strands of long black hair lay plastered on her bare back. Tach watched the play of muscles in her legs and back, studied the ripe breasts bouncing beneath the halter top, and felt his mouth go dry and the urgent thrust of his penis against his zipper. It was a bitter and tantalizing glimpse of wholeness, for he knew after countless hopeless encounters that the power would fade when the moment came upon him.
Furious, he rolled onto his stomach and beat his fists on the ground—furious at his impotence, and at his flighty, undisciplined mind that could be distracted from concern over an ace killer by the sight of female flesh.
A toe nudged him in the ribs, and he shot to his feet.
“Hey, hey.” Braun held up his hands placatingly. “Take it easy.”
“Where’s Blaise?” Tach stared anxiously about.
“I gave him some money for ice cream.”
“You shouldn’t have let him go alone. Something might happen.…”
“That kid can look out for himself.” Braun dropped cross-legged onto the blanket, lit a cigarette. “Mind if I give you some advice?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not on Takis now. He’s not a prince of the blood royal.”
Tachyon gave a bitter little laugh. “No, far from it. He’s an abomination. On Takis he would be destroyed.”
“Huh?”
The alien swept up the scattered orange peels and carried them to a garbage can. “The greatest penalties are reserved for those who mingle their seed outside their class. How could we rule if everyone possessed our powers?” he tossed back over his shoulder.
“Charming culture you come from. But it supports my point.”
“Being what?”
“Stop driving him crazy. You’re laying way too much pressure on him. You expect him to abide by rules of behavior that have no correlation on Earth, and you’re also spoiling him rotten. Music lessons, karate lessons, dance lessons, tutoring in algebra and biology and chemistry—”
“Well, you’re wrong there. His third tutor quit days ago, and I haven’t been able to find a replacement. And that is why I have to expect so much of him. His power and his breeding make him special. At least to me.”
“Tachyon, listen to me. You can’t give a kid every toy and every gimcrack he desires, tell him he’s special, special, special, and then expect him not to be an arrogant little bastard. Let him be a kid. Take his clothes.”
“What’s wrong with his clothes?” There was a threat in the husky voice.
“Get him out of the knee britches, and the lace, and the hats. Buy him some blue jeans, and a Dodgers cap. He’s got to live in this world.”
“I have not chosen to conform.”
“Yeah, but you’re a crank. It’s a big flamboyant act with you. You’re also an adult, and one incredibly arrogant son-of-a-bitch, and you could care less what people say about you. You don’t want Blaise to abuse his power, but you’ve almost guaranteed that he’ll have to. There’s nothing crueler than kids, and he’s going to be tormented until he lashes out. Then you’ll be disappointed and disapproving, and he’ll be resentful, and what a perfect vicious circle you’ve created.”
“You should write a book. Clearly your vast experience has made you an authority on child rearing.”
“Ah, hell, Tachyon. I like the kid. I even occasionally like you. Love him, Tachyon, and relax.”
“I do love him.”
“No, you love what he represents. You’re obsessive about him because your im—” He bit off the words and flushed a deep red. “Ah, hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”
“How do you even know?”
“Fantasy told me.”
“Bitch.”
“Hey, relax there too, and everything will probably work out. It’s no big deal.”
“Braun, you cannot conceive of what a big deal it is. Progeny, continuance—Oh, fuck! Are you also planning to offer psychiatric counseling at your new casino? Do what you do best, Jack—drift and make money. But leave me alone!”
“With pleasure!”
Seizing the picnic hamper and the blanket, Tachyon stormed away in search of Blaise.
“Where’s Uncle Jack?”
“Uncle Jack had an appointment in Atlantic City.”
“You two had a fight again. Why do you two fight so much?”
“Ancient history.”
“Then you should forget it.”
“Don’t you start too.” Tach waved down a cab.
“Where are we going?”
“To Mark’s.”
“Oh.”
“Please wait for me,” Tachyon instructed when they pulled up in front of the Cosmic Pumpkin.
“Hokay, but the meters she keeps running,” the man replied in a thick and unplaceable accent.
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll wait too,” said Blaise in a small voice. And Tachyon felt a moment’s shame, remembering his lack of control the last time they had visited the Pumpkin.
He stuck his head in the door. “Mark.”
“Yo.”
“Quick question. Have you been bothered with emissaries from various criminal organizations?” The handful of diners from CUNY stared at the Takisian wide-eyed.
“Huh?”
Tach expelled air in a sharp puff of irritation. “Have you been asked to pay protection?”
“Oh, is that what you meant. Oh, yeah, man, months ago, but I like … had one of my … friends show up, and they haven’t been back.”
“Would that everyone had friends like yours, Mark.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so.”
Tachyon slid into the cab and gave the hack the clinic’s address.
“Ohhhh, Jokertowns. Yous that doctors?”
“Yes.”
“I sees you on the televisions. Peri Green’s Perches.”
“That’s Peregrine, and yes, that was me.”
“Holy Jesus!”
The driver’s exclamation jerked Tach’s attention to the road ahead. A jumble of police cars, their lights flashing, blocked Hester Street. With a wail an ambulance shot past.
“Shit, must be anothers, how you says, hits.”
“Stop, stop at once.”
Leaping from the cab, Tach darted under the police tape. A woman’s keening filled the air, and a basso voice amplified by a bullhorn ordered knots of muttering people to move along. Tachyon spotted Detective Maseryk and pushed up to him.
“What?”
“How the hell … oh, hi, Doc.” The detective stared curiously at the small boy who gazed with interest at the sprawled bodies in the shattered restaurant.
Tachyon rounded on Blaise. “Get back to the cab and wait there.”
“Ahhh—”
“Now!”
“Looks like another little party,” said Maseryk when Blaise had reluctantly drooped away. “But this time an uninvited guest got mixed up in it too.” He jerked his head toward the sobbing woman, who was clutching at a small form in a bodybag being lifted into the ambulance.
Tachyon ran to the stretcher, unzipped the bag, and stared down at the child. He hadn’t been very attractive to start with, a squat-bottomed heavy body sat upon broad flippers, and he looked a lot worse with half his head shot away. Spinning, the Takisian caught the woman in a tight embrace.
“MY BABY! MY BABY! DON’T LET THEM TAKE MY BABY!”
A rescue worker approached, hypodermic at the ready. Tachyon stilled the sobbing mother with a brief touch of his power and handed her to the man.
“Treat her kindly.”
“Looks like Gambione boys,” Maseryk called as he stared thoughtfully down at one sprawled body. Several strings of spaghetti hung from the corpse’s mouth, leaving wet, red trails on his chin. “The Fists came cruising by and opened up. Car will be found, and be stolen, so that’ll be another dead end. Too bad about the kid though. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The detective noticed Tachyon’s continued silence and glanced down.
“I don’t want dead ends, Maseryk, I want these men.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Perhaps it is time I took a hand.”
“No, for Christ’s sake, the last thing we need are civilians getting in the way. Just stay out of this.”
“Nobody kills my people in my town!”
“Huh? The mayor’s going to be mighty surprised to hear he lost and you won the last election,” he yelled after Tachyon’s retreating back.
“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.
