Jokers Wild

  Overhead, a hundred birds stopped cooing as she took them over completely. The avian wave swept down toward the car, covering it in a cloak of blood and feathers. The limousine’s brakes shrieked as the driver attempted a panic-stop before his blindness wrecked the car.

  Keeping more of the pigeons in reserve, Bagabond shifted her attention to the hordes of squirrels gathered in the lower branches of the oaks and maples lining the road. As she directed a battalion of squirrels toward the swerving car, pain careened across her own mind. Her first thought was that either the black or the calico was in trouble. But tracing their individual patterns within her awareness of the city’s wild ones told her that the cats were well. The gray. He deliberately was inflicting pain on himself, trying to destroy her concentration. Bagabond reprimanded him mentally, sending waves of emotional chill, stunning his rebellion.

  Only a few seconds had passed. But the driver was close to regaining control when the roadway become a moving carpet of squirrels. The driver had accelerated to escape the birds. Bagabond sent the animals under the wheels of the car. The shrieks of the dying squirrels mixed with the sound of abused brakes. The heavy car’s momentum carried it across the massed rodents. Their blood greased the road and the limousine skidded sideways. Now the doors and side panels were streaked and spattered with blood.

  Bagabond’s head snapped to the side as feedback from the gray flooded her mind. This time he was not satisfied with distraction; now he tried to disperse the animals, using Bagabond as a focus. Her anger streamed out, knocking him unconscious. She might have killed him, but her attention was needed at the bridge.

  The driver had overcorrected for the skid and sent the car into a spin. The right wheels struck the low guardrail, bending it out. The mass of the car’s armor-plate sent it crashing through the retaining wall and over the side. Streaks of white paint remained on the metal and concrete. One wheel cover was slung free. It preceded the limousine over the edge, skimming slowly through the air like a Frisbee. The automobile wasn’t so fortunate.

  Time, for Bagabond, seemed to stop as she watched the car roll over in the air. One part of her was ending the lives of the birds and squirrels injured in the attack. Another part considered the murder and wondered if it was worth the cost to help a friend and take revenge.

  The vehicle plunged to the jogging path. It landed hard on the concrete trail, crushing the roof of the passenger compartment flush with the body. The car rocked to a halt and burst into a whuffing ball of flame.

  Sacrificing a few animals to feed others had been nothing compared to this carnage she saw as she looked around at the bridge. Bodies were scattered everywhere. She felt a pain she had not experienced since first learning to distance the lives of her animals from her own. Maybe the gray had been right to attempt to stop her. The side of her mind she considered human was happy for her success, eager to find out Rosemary’s reaction. The animal side wanted to reject what she had done.

  Abruptly, Bagabond realized that the remaining creatures waited patiently for her instructions. The dark cloud of pigeons rose into the sky and dispersed in all directions. No one saw the undulating mass of squirrels break apart and run for the wooded sections of the park. Bagabond was already hidden by the trees and walking toward the subway entrance at Columbus Circle.

  Before she could cross 59th Street, the recovered gray confronted her with the image of what she had done, an image that changed into a picture of her lying bloody and broken on the ground.

  Bagabond paused, staggered by the final realization of what she had done. This was not an occasional sacrifice for food or her own protection. She had used the animals she had always protected, in her own war, to achieve a goal that had meaning only to her. She had betrayed a trust she had held since she came back from the hospital. Bagabond felt sick. It was not the gray’s doing. She hoped Rosemary was worth it.

  Rosemary waited, if unknowingly. Before checking in with her, Bagabond would go by Jack’s home to check for messages about his missing niece, Cordelia. Maybe now there would be time to help him.

  Bagabond walked down the steps into the subway sta­tion and used one of the tokens the raccoon had proved so adept at stealing. Taking the Number 1 local downtown, she ignored the admiring glances she attracted from her male fellow passengers.

  CHAPTER 8

  1:00 p.m.

  The street was still crowded with late-arriving fans, souvenir sellers, and ticket scalpers. Somehow Jennifer managed to slip through the outer wall of the stadium without anyone noticing, but on the street she attracted a fair amount of attention. Heads turned and wolf whistles followed her down the street, but she barely noticed. She moved quickly, watching out for the men who had tried to grab her in the Happy Hocker and the man who had followed her into the stadium, but none of them seemed to be around. She spotted an empty taxi, flagged it down and told the driver, “Manhattan.”

  She settled down to think as the taxi carried her back to more familiar territory. Events around her were moving with incomprehensible speed and violence. Kien must really want his stamps back, she thought. Unless it was the other book . . .

  She glanced at her purse, a small leather bag closed by a simple drawstring. It had the stolen books and a few dol­lars she carried for emergencies like this, but nothing else. No wallet, no identification. The whole thing was going sour. Feeling eyes upon her, she looked up into the mirror and caught the cab driver staring at her. He looked away and Jennifer tried to sink further back into the stained and worn upholstery of the cab’s back seat. She had to find some decent clothes somewhere. As it was she looked as if she were dressed for a Rio de Janeiro carnival.

  Maybe, she thought, she’d better call it all off and return the books. They’d already cost Gruber his life—though for the life of her she couldn’t figure out who had killed him—and given her a few too many close brushes with violence.

  She’d have to contact Kien. That’d be easy, but the details of the exchange might be tricky to work out. Also, she didn’t want to come out of this thing entirely empty-handed.

  She looked out the window of the cab pensively, and, struck by sudden inspiration, called out, “Stop, stop right here!”

  The driver took her at her word and slammed on the brakes, bringing the taxi to a screeching halt. She could hear tires squeal behind them as she leaped out and tossed some crumpled bills onto the front seat.

  “Thanks,” she said breathlessly, and turned and ran up the street.

  “My pleasure,” the cabbie said with a bemused expression, watching her bikini-clad form with appreciation as she ran up to the front of the Famous Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum.

  “Jack! Jack, it is you, am I not right?”

  A familiar voice, any familiar voice in the Village’s cir­cus atmosphere today was a shock. Jack turned and saw a handsome man, half a head taller than he, looking down at him.

  “Hello, Jean-Jacques,” Jack said. Jean-Jacques had arrived from Senegal six years ago. He worked part of the time as a waiter at the Simba on Sixth Avenue at Eighth, and the rest of the time as a tutor for foreign students learn­ing English at the New School. Jack had never seen a man with more striking features. “Listen,” he said to the other. “I need some help.” He took out Cordelia’s snapshot.

  Jean-Jacques nodded, but seemed distracted. “Anything, my friend. Anything at all.”

  Jack knew there was something wrong. “What is it?”

  “Nothing to be of concern.” Jean-Jacques looked away toward the pedestrians moving briskly past them. The early afternoon sun shone on his skin so that the deep black shone almost blue.

  “I doubt that.” Jack put a hand on the man’s shoulder, conscious of the warm vitality radiating through the bright pattern. “Tell me.”

  Jean-Jacques looked back at Jack, his penetrating gaze meeting Jack’s eyes. “It is the retrovirus,” he said. “It is the killer. I have just been to see my doctor. The diagnosis was unfortunately positive.” He sighed. “Qu
ite positive.”

  “Retrovirus?” said Jack. “You mean the wild card—”

  “No.” Jean-Jacques interrupted him. “The surer killer.” The word seemed to stick in his throat. “AIDS.”

  “Mother of Jesus,” said Jack. “I am sorry.” He started closer to Jean-Jacques, caught himself for just a second, then went ahead and embraced the man. “I’m very sorry.”

  Jean-Jacques gently pushed Jack away. “I understand,” he said simply. “You are not the first I have told. Already they are treating me like one of the damnable jokers.” He shut his eyes sadly, then opened them and said, “Don’t worry, old friend. You are all right. I know who it was.” He shut his eyes again. “And I know when it was.” His head began to shake slightly and Jack again embraced him. This time, Jean-Jacques did not push him immediately away.

  “I think you are on a mission,” Jean-Jacques said. “Tell me what you are seeking, and if I can help, I shall.”

  Jack hesitated, then told him about Cordelia. The Sen­egalese inspected the photograph. “A very beautiful young lady.” He glanced at Jack. “You share the same eyes.” Then he handed back the picture. “Go,” he said. “Continue your search. As I said, if I observe anything that could be of use to you, I will let you know.”

  There was nothing more to say, but Jack remained there beside Jean-Jacques.

  “Go,” Jean-Jacques repeated. He smiled slightly. “Good fortune.” Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

  “This is your important stop?” Roulette asked, eyeing the decaying wall of a riverfront warehouse. Tachyon had dismissed Riggs several blocks away, and a brisk sweat-raising walk had ended here.

  He glanced back over his shoulder as his slender hands opened the large shiny padlock. His expression was one of suppressed excitement and mischief, rather like a little boy about to show off his collection of tadpoles. And she suddenly realized that he was very young. Because of mutation and their obsession with the life sciences, the Takisian life span was vastly longer than the human. Tachyon at eighty-something was a graybeard by Earth standards, but only verging on manhood by Takisian norms. It explained a lot.

  The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and he waved her through. Her sharp retreat brought her up hard against his chest.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “My God, what?” She glanced cautiously at the glowing monstrosity squatting in the center of the empty, echoing room. It looked rather like a wentletrap seashell, but the tips of its gray spines were set with glowing amber and purple lights. It also seemed to be resting in a glittering whirlpool, for dust was spiraling in toward the creature.

  “The ship.”

  “What?”

  “Your ship,” she amended quickly.

  “Yes, Baby.”

  “Baby?”

  “Uh huh.” Tachyon’s lilac eyes rested lovingly on the ship, and Roulette’s shields (painstakingly erected by the Astronomer) responded to a nearby telepathic communication.

  “She’s frustrated. She tried to say hello to you, but you have shields.” He cocked his head to one side, seriously re­garding her. “Strange. Most humans . . .” A quick shake of the head. “Well, come inside.”

  “I . . . I’d rather not.”

  “She won’t hurt you.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  She hunched her shoulders and walked toward the ship, though it felt like a betrayal. Sometime early tomorrow morning the Astronomer would seize this living vessel, and pilot her far away.

  The ship obligingly opened her lock, and they entered the control room. The inner walls and floor of the ship glowed like polished mother-of-pearl, casting opalescent light across the large canopy bed that dominated the room. Tachyon chuckled.

  “Your expression is priceless. You see, unlike most of my kind I vowed I would die in bed. This seemed to be a way to ensure it.”

  The rest of the furniture had a fragile beauty, and it was clear from the width of the chair seats that Takisians were smaller than humans. Unless this furniture had been made for Tachyon’s personal use.

  The alien took her gently by the shoulders, and indicated the wall. Flowing silver script gleamed.

  Greetings, Roolete.

  Tachyon smiled, and shook his head.

  Roulette.

  “Her spelling isn’t so good yet. She just started this when I had some other friends aboard. She’s picking up a knowledge of written English by a low-level drain. I’m indulgent so I let her get away with it.”

  “It’s unbelievable.”

  She seated herself on the bed while Tachyon unearthed a pair of crystal goblets from a chest which seemed to be an extrusion of the ship herself.

  Another message flitted across the wall while the alien’s back was turned.

  You are honored. There was something peevish about the message.

  “Cut it out, Baby,” warned Tachyon.

  Apology.

  “Accepted,” Roulette said, feeling like an idiot.

  Tachyon splashed a dollop of brandy into each glass from his hip flask. Two bright spots of color were burning on his cheeks. “You are the first woman I’ve ever brought here. So she is curious, hopeful, and a little resentful.”

  “She loves you.”

  “Yes, and I her.” He brushed his palm across one curving wall.

  “Why hopeful?” She took a sip of cognac.

  “Despite being a little jealous she wants to see me marry, and sire children. Pedigree, continuance, is very im­portant to the ships. Over the centuries they’ve absorbed our obsession with ancestor worship, and she considers me a failure. I keep telling her I have a lot of time left. Especially since I now live on Earth.” He joined her on the bed.

  “I’ve read a great deal about you, but I’ve never seen this mentioned. Of course it’s logical you would have a ship, how else would you have gotten here?”

  “I try to keep it very quiet. When I was trying to recover her from the government I raised a great to-do about Baby. Now I’m more cautious, and fortunately people’s memories are short. Unfortunately she gets lonely so I come as often as I can. She misses her own kind too. They are essentially herd creatures, and this kind of isolation is not good for her.”

  “Why don’t you live in her, then?”

  “I want a social life, and I also want to keep her secret. Those two goals rather conflict. So I compromise. I live nearby, I visit often, and sometimes I take her out. According to Sister Magdalene at the South Street mission I’m doing a positive service. She’s had several derelicts take the pledge after spotting us.”

  She laughed, leaned down, and kissed him where he reclined against the cushions. He caught the top button of her blouse in trembling fingers, and from the corner of her eye she could see his erection straining at the satin material of his breeches. She jerked away, and swiftly rebuttoned her blouse.

  “I’m sorry, but I thought you . . . we—”

  “Not here! I couldn’t perform with an audience.” She also wondered what would be the ship’s reaction if she killed Tachyon within Baby’s skin. Roulette doubted she’d leave the ship alive.

  The Famous Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum (Admission Only $2) was closed, probably because its manager realized that most people would be taking advantage of the day’s free entertainment.

  That was, Jennifer thought, just fine. She went down a side alley and, making sure no one was watching, slipped through the wall. It was difficult. It took some moments of concentration and then she had to fight her way through the brickwork as if she were solid and the bricks were a viscous, unyielding liquid. Her body was getting tired and she knew that she shouldn’t ghost for a while, but she had to get this done and then maybe she could think about resting.

  She finally made it through and found herself in a small dark room with a series of dimly glowing glass bottles set along one wall like a bank of aquariums in a pet store. Floating in the tanks were pathetic little corpses, little
embalmed “Monstrous Joker Babies” as the sign above the exhibit proclaimed. There were maybe thirty of them. Most had little of humanity about them and Jennifer was thankful, in a way, that they had experienced for so short a time the cruelty of the world.

  She hurried from the room and found herself in the section of the museum devoted to large displays that were life-sized dioramas. It was eerily quiet and dark with the displays’ lighting and sound effects turned off, and quite disconcerting to be the only living thing about.

  She went by a scene depicting Jokertown burning, commemorating, as it were, the Great Jokertown Riot of 1976. There was, now only mildly shocking to modern tastes, an older tableau showing a purported Jokertown orgy. A sign in front of a curtained-off area said to watch for the latest addition to the entertaining yet informative displays, Earth vs. The Swarm.

  Jennifer went on past the dioramas into the long hall-way beyond and entered the museum’s Hall of Fame, or, in some instances, Infamy.

  Lifelike wax figures of prominent aces and jokers clustered in groups or stood alone in the hallway. Jetboy looked young and handsome, his scarf blowing out behind him in an unfelt, perhaps divine wind, his eyes squinting slightly as if he were staring into a gentle sun. The Four Aces—Black Eagle, Brain Trust, the Envoy, and Golden Boy—stood in a group, three of them together, one isolated by the slightly turned backs, the slightly averted faces of his fellow aces. Dr. Tachyon was resplendent in an outfit that a small card at his feet said had been donated by him to the museum. And there were others. Peregrine maintaining, Jennifer had to admit, her smoldering sensuality even when graven in wax, Cyclone, Hiram Worchester’s astonishing bulk appar­ently floating lightly over his pedestal, Chrysalis with invisible flesh and visible organs caged by her skeleton . . .