Jetboy had just crashed the JB–1 into the blimps when the picture suddenly crackled and went black. “Hey,” Jube said, stabbing at his remote control. Nothing happened.
Then a hound the size of a small horse walked out of his television set.
It was lean and terrible, its body smoke-gray and hideously emaciated, its eyes windows that opened on a charnel house. A long forked tail curved up over its back like a scorpion’s sting, and twitched from side to side.
Jube recoiled so fast he splashed water all over his bedroom floor, and began shouting at the thing. The hound bared teeth like yellow daggers. Jube realized he was babbling in the Network trade tongue, and switched to English. “Get out!” he told it. “Get away!” He scrabbled over the side of the tub, splashing more water, and retreated. The remote control was still in his hand, if he could reach his sanctum—but what good would that do, against some thing that walked through walls? His flesh went hot with sudden terror.
The hound padded after him, and then stopped. Its gaze was fixed on his crotch. It seemed momentarily bemused by the forked double penis, and full set of female genitalia beneath. Jube decided that his best chance lay in a dash for the street. He edged backward.
“Fat little man,” the hound called out in a voice that was pure unctuous malice. “Will you run from me? You sought me out, fool. Do you think your thick joker legs can carry you faster than Setekh the destroyer?”
Jube gaped. “Who…”
“I am he whose secrets you sought to know,” the hound said. “Pathetic little joker, did you think we would not notice, did you think we would not care? I have taken the knowledge from the minds of your hirelings, and followed the trail back to you. And now you will die.”
“Why?” Jube said. He had no doubt that creature could kill him, but if he must perish, he hoped at least to understand the reason.
“Because you have wasted my time,” the hound said. Its mouth twisted into obscene, unnatural shapes when it spoke. “I thought to find some great enemy, and instead I find a fat little joker who makes his money selling gossip to a saloonkeeper. How much did you think the secrets of our Order would be worth? Who did you think might pay for them, Walrus? Tell me, and I will not toy with you. Lie, and your dying will last till dawn.”
The hound had no idea what he was, Jhubben realized. How could it? It had learned of him from Chrysalis, from the street; it had not walked behind his false wall. Suddenly, for reasons he could not have explained, Jube knew that Setekh must not know. He must lead it away from his secrets. “I did not mean to pry, mighty Setekh,” he said loudly. He had posed as a joker for thirty-four years, he knew how to crawl. “I beg your mercy,” he said, edging backward toward the living room. “I am not your enemy,” he told it. The hound padded toward him, eyes smoldering, tongue lolling from its long snout. Jube jumped for his living room, slammed the door behind him, and ran.
The hound bounded through the wall to cut him off, and Jube lost his footing as he recoiled. He went down in a heap, the hound raised one terrible paw to strike … and stopped as Jube cringed away from the killing blow. Its mouth twisted and ran with phantom slaver, and Jube realized it was laughing. It was staring at something behind him and laughing. He craned his head around, and saw only the tachyon transmitter.
When he looked back, the hound was gone. Instead a frail little man in a wheelchair sat staring at him. “We are an old Order,” the little man said. “The secrets have passed through many mouths, and some have gone astray, and some branches have been lost and forgotten. Be glad you were not killed, brother.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jube said, crawling to his knees. He had no idea why he was being spared, but he was not going to argue the point. “Thank you, master. I won’t bother you again.”
“I will let you live, so you may live to serve us,” the apparition in the wheelchair told him. “Even one as stupid and weak as you may have his uses in the great struggle to come. But say nothing of what you have learned, or you will not live to be initiated.”
“I’ve forgotten it already,” Jube said.
The man in the wheelchair seemed to find that vastly amusing. His forehead throbbed as he laughed. A moment later, he was gone. Jube got to his feet very cautiously.
Early the next morning, a joker with vivid crimson skin bought a copy of the Daily News, and paid for it with a shiny red penny the size of a half dollar. “I’d keep that if I were you, pal o’ mine,” he said, smiling. “I think it might just be your lucky coin.” Then he told when and where the next meeting would be held.
Relative Difficulties
by Melinda M. Snodgrass
DR. TACHYON BOUNDED DOWN the steps of the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic, and paused to pat one of the dispirited sandstone lions that flanked the stairs. He noticed that its companion to the north still had a toupee of dirty snow adorning its crumbling head. Though he was already late for a luncheon date with Senator Hartmann at Aces High, he couldn’t resist tenderly brushing away the snow. A brisk, cold wind was gusting off the East River, driving tatters of white clouds before it, and carrying the sound of horns from the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge.
The urgency of the horns reminded him of the passing time, and he took the final two steps in a long leap. And was brought up short by an expanse of pink. A waistcoat, Tach identified before his view was broken by a gladiolus thrust firmly beneath his nose. Tach looked up and up, and realized he was facing a stranger … and there was danger, or the potential of danger, in every stranger. Three quick steps back carried him out of range of all but a gun or some esoteric ace power, and he warily studied the apparition.
The man was very tall, his scrawny height exaggerated by the enormously tall purple stovepipe hat crammed down onto long, lank blond hair. A coat, also purple, hung from narrow shoulders, and set—to Tach’s mind—a lovely contrast to the orange and violet paisley shirt and green trunks. The grinning scarecrow once more proferred the flower.
“Like, I’m Captain Trips, man,” he offered, and stood swaying and beaming like a drunken lighthouse. Fascinated, Tachyon stared up into pale blue eyes swimming behind lenses that looked as if they’d been knocked off the bottom of Coke bottles. Unable to construct anything coherent to say, Tach merely accepted the flower.
“That’s not really my name, man,” the Captain confided in a stage whisper that would have carried to the end of Carnegie Hall. “I’m an ace so I gotta have a secret identity, you know?” The Captain ran a bony hand across his mouth, smoothing the slightly stained mustache and the scraggly wisp of beard. “Oh, wow, like, I can’t believe it. Dr. Tachyon, in person. I really admire you, man.”
Tach, never one to pass up a compliment, was pleased, but also aware of the passing time. He jammed the flower into his coat pocket, and surged back into motion, his newfound companion falling in beside him. There was a good feeling about the man that washed off him with the faint odor of ginseng, sandalwood, and old sweat, but Tach couldn’t shake the feeling that the Captain was an amiable lunatic. Digging his hand into the pockets of his midnight-blue breeches, he cast Trips a sideways glance, and decided that he had to say something. He obviously wasn’t going to be rid of the man anytime soon. “So, was there any particular reason for your seeking me out?”
“Well, I think I need advice. Like, you know, it seemed you were the person to ask.” The man’s hands sought out the gigantic green bow tie with its yellow polka dots, and gave it a hard tug as if he found it confining. “I’m not really Captain Trips.”
“Yes, I know, you said that,” replied Tach, clinging to his now-fast-vanishing patience.
“I’m really Mark Meadows. Dr. Mark Meadows. Like, we have a lot in common, man.”
“You can’t be serious,” blurted Tach, and instantly regretted his rudeness.
The gawky figure seemed to pull in on itself, losing inches. “I am, man, really.”
Ten years ago Mark Meadows had been considered the most brilliant biochem
ist in the world, the Einstein of his field. There had been a dozen different explanations for his sudden retirement: stress, personality deterioration, the breakup of his marriage, drug abuse. But to think that young giant had been reduced to this shambling—
“I’ve been, like, lookin’ for the Radical, man.”
Memory snapped down; 1970?, the riot in People’s Park when a mysterious ace had appeared on the scene, rescued the Lizard King, and vanished, never to be seen again.
“You’re not the only one. I tried to locate him in ’70, but he never reappeared.”
“Yeah, it’s a real bummer,” the Captain concurred mournfully. “I had him once … well, I think I had him once, but I haven’t been able to get him back, so maybe I didn’t. Maybe it’s just, like, wishful thinking, man.”
“You’re claiming to be the Radical?” Disbelief sent Tach’s voice up several octaves.
“Oh no, man, ’cause I got no proof. I made these powders, trying to find him, to get him back, but when I eat them I get these other people.”
“Other people?” Tach repeated in an unnaturally calm tone.
“Yeah, my friends, man.”
Tachyon was certain now. He had a nut on his hands. If only he had sent for the limousine. He began casting about for a way to dump his unwelcome companion and get to his meeting before they cancelled his grant or the Ideal only knew what else.… He spotted an alley that he knew would cut through to a taxi stand. Surely there he could be rid—
Trips was rambling again. “You’re sorta like the father to all the aces, man. And you’re always doing stuff to help people. And I’d like to help people so I was figuring you could, like, teach me to be an ace, and fight evil, and—”
Whatever else the Captain wanted was lost in a squeal of tires as a car shot into the alley and jammed to a halt. Survival instincts, drilled into him from infancy, took over, and Tach whirled and ran from what had now become a deadly box. Trips turned from side to side, his head poking at the car and at the fleeing Takisian like a puzzled stork.
Screech! Slam! Another car, effectively blocking his escape. And figures—familiar figures—boiling from the vehicles. He had no time to ponder the inexplicable presence of his relatives on Earth; instead his shields snapped into place just in time to turn a powerful mind blast. His power lanced out, shields buckled, fell, and one of his attackers collapsed.
He tried another; the shields held. Too many. Time to try and elude them physically. The leak from their minds indicated a simple capture, but then he saw an arrester slide from his cousin Rabdan’s wrist sheath. It was a particularly nasty weapon, and a popular assassination tool. A press to the victim’s chest, and the heart stopped. Quick, clean, simple, and the job was finished. A spinning back kick sent Rabdan staggering into a row of garbage cans. The battered cans went down with a crash and a clatter, releasing the stench of rotting garbage, and four or five yowling, spitting alley cats. The silvery disk of the arrester rolled from Rabdan’s hand, and Tach leaped for it.
From the corner of his eye he saw the Captain clutch at his head, and collapse with a moan to the slimy pavement. Another mental attack that his shields turned, but they did fuck all against a baton expertly wielded by Sedjur, his old arms master, and as his skull exploded in fragments of light and pain, Tachyon felt a deep sense of hurt and betrayal, and a strong wish that he had had a gun.
“… bring this other one?”
“You said to leave neither witnesses nor bodies.”
Rabdan’s sulky, defensive tones seemed filtered by several miles of cotton wool, and that other voice … it couldn’t be. Tach squeezed his eyes tighter shut, willing the return of unconsciousness, anything but the presence of the Kibr, Benaf’saj.
The old woman sighed. “Very well, perhaps he can serve as a control. Take him to the cabin with the others.” Rabdan’s footfalls receded, accompanied by a dragging sound.
“The boy did well,” Sedjur said, once Rabdan was gone and could not be insulted by his remarks. “His years here have strengthened him. Took out Rabdan.”
“Yes, yes. Now go. I must speak with my grandchild.”
Sedjur’s footsteps dwindled, and Tach continued to play possum. His mind lanced out; touched on the presence of the ship, (it was definitely a war vessel of the Courser class), felt the familiar pattern of Takisian minds, the panic of two … no, three human ones. And finally a mind whose touch brought a rush of fear and hate and regret tinged with sadness. His cousin Zabb, becoming aware of the featherlike probe, thrust back, and Tachyon’s imperfect shield allowed part of the blow to pass. His headache increased in intensity.
“I know you’re conscious,” Benaf’saj said conversationally.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes, and regarded the chiseled features of his oldest living relative. The opaline luminescence of the ship’s walls formed a halo about her silver-white hair, and heightened the network of lines that etched her face. But even with these ravages it was possible to see traces of the formidable beauty that had enthralled several generations of men. Legend had it that a member of the Alaa family had risked all to spend one night with her. One wondered if he had found the bliss worth the price, for she had killed him before morning. (Or so the story ran.) A gnarled hand plucked at a wisp of hair that had worked free from the elaborate coiffure, while the faded gray eyes studied him with a coolness bordering on disinterest.
“Will you greet me properly, or have your years on Earth dulled your manners?”
He scrambled up, swept her a bow, and dropped to one knee before her. Her long, dry fingers caged his face, drawing him close, and the withered lips pressed a kiss onto his forehead.
“You weren’t always so silent. At home your chattering was held to be a flaw.” He remained quiet, not wanting to lose position by asking the first question. “Sedjur says you’ve learned to fight. Has Earth also taught you to keep your own counsel?”
“Rabdan tried to kill me.”
She was neither disconcerted by the bluntness of the statement, nor insulted by his flat, hostile tone. “Not everyone would welcome your return to Takis.”
“And Zabb is on board.”
“And from that you may draw your own conclusions.”
“I see.” He looked away, revulsion lying like a foul taste on the back of his tongue. “I’m not going back, and neither are the humans.”
Her thin fingers closed like talons on his chin, and forced him to face her. “You sulky-faced boy. What about your duty and responsibility to the family?”
“And what about my pursuit of virtue?” he countered, throwing up to her the other equally important and utterly contradictory tenet of Takisian life.
“Time has not stood still at home while you have amused yourself on Earth. When you vanished, Shaklan suspected you had followed the ship to Earth.
“But you were not alone in your concern over the great experiment. Others watched, but rather than haring off to prevent the release, they struck at the source. L’gura, that motherless animal, welded a coalition of fifteen other families, and they came.” She stared down at her hands, and suddenly she looked very old. “Many died in the attack. But for Zabb I think we all might have died.” Tach caught his lower lip between his teeth, holding back the excuses for his absence. “Did you never wonder, as the years passed and still we did not come, what might have happened?”
A cold blade seemed to twist in his belly, and he forced out, “Father?”
“A head injury. The flesh lives, but the mind is gone.” Numbness gripped him, and the remainder of her words seemed to come to him from a great distance. “With you gone Zabb agitated for the scepter, but many feared his ambition. In order to block his ascension your uncle Taj maintained a regency, but it was decided that you had to be found, for it is doubtful how much longer Shaklan’s body can continue.…”
Bitterly cold mornings, and his father pressing a paper cone filled with roasted nuts into his hand while a street vendor bobbed and beamed at the noble
ones … Swinging sadly on a door while Shaklan conducted business and forgot that he had promised to teach his small son to ride that day. The meeting ending, and the arms opening wide. Racing into that embrace, feeling safe as those powerful arms closed about him, the tickle of a lace cravat against his cheek, and the warm, man scent, overlaid with the spice of his cologne … The indescribable pain when his father had shot him through the upper thigh during one of his psi training sessions. Their tears had mingled as Shaklan tried to explain why he had done it. That Tisianne had to be able to withstand anything this side of death without losing mental control. Someday his life might depend upon it.… The flicker of firelight on the etched planes of his face as they shared a bottle of wine, and wept, the night they learned of Jadlan’s suicide.
Tach covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. Benaf’saj made no move, physical or mental, to ease his anguish, and he hated her. The storm wore itself out, and he mopped at his running eyes and nose with a handkerchief supplied by his many-times great-granddam. Their eyes met, and he saw in them … pain? He could scarcely credit it, and the moment passed before he could assure himself of the reality of what he had seen.
“We will be under way as soon as we have swept the area for swarmlings. We are not well enough armed to fight off an attack by one of the devourers, and our screens must be dropped before we can enter ghostflight. It is a shame,” she continued to muse, “that we were able to save so few specimens. It is likely the T’zan-d’ran will destroy this world.” His head moved in quick negation. “You disagree?”
“I think the humans might surprise you.”
“I doubt it. But at least we have gathered our data.” She pinned him with a cold, gray eye. “You will, of course, have the run of the ship; but, please, do not approach the humans. It will only agitate them, and make it harder for them to adjust to their new lives.”