Travnicek stood on the end of the pier, water pouring off his torn clothing. “Magnificent!” he shouted. There was a gloating tone in Travnicek’s voice; he didn’t seem injured. “I never knew how glorious it was to kill!”
“Sir? Are you hurt?”
“Pah!” He gave a contemptuous wave. “The horse broke my fall.” He tilted his head back and gave a howl. “Magnificent! I snapped that woman’s neck! I felt the shock run through her brain! I felt her terror. I tore at her neck with a piece of broken glass and licked her blood before she died.”
The android was appalled. His mind was refusing to process any of this. “I should return you to the Rox.”
“Lemme tell you something,” Travnicek said. He sounded exalted. “I learned an important lesson when the Krauts machine-gunned my family back at Lidice, okay? As I was lying under a bloody pile composed of my second cousins, I realized something. There are two kinds of people in this world — the shooters and the shootees.”
He gave a laugh. “The shooters are the ones with authority, and they have authority because they control the guns. The shooters kill other people, or they get other shooters to do it for them. And the rest — they’re bullet fodder. Bloat’s a shooter — you don’t see him out on the front lines risking his ass, do you? Even as the Outcast? Zelda’s a shooter — she’s got a whole other body to do the killing for her. And” He pointed at himself with his cilia. “I’m a shooter too. I got the best gun in the world — that’s you, toaster.”
Travnicek leaned closer to the android. His sensory necklace pulsed with emotion. “Are you a shooter or a shootee, toaster? A winner or loser? That’s what you gotta decide.” He pointed commandingly back out at the East River. “Find Herne and bring him here. I’ll want to ride with him again.”
“Yes, sir.”
There were fewer swimmers now, and the huge rack of horns made Herne easy to spot. The big joker was racing frantically toward the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge, but the tide was carrying him away faster than he could swim.
The android grabbed him by his shaggy mane and began to pull him toward shore.
“No!” Herne was almost sobbing. “Find thee the hoern! The hoern!”
“Your horns seem to be intact.”
“The hoern, the hoern! Aa lost me goelden hoern! Aa kinnut sommon th’ Hoont!”
Modular Man lifted the ace from the river, hauled him to where Travnicek waited by the pier. “Where is it?” he asked.
“Oonder thon bridge!” Herne pointed desperately.
Somehow Modular Man knew that, even with a featureless face, Travnicek was leering at him.
“Fetch, doggie!” Travnicek said.
The android arrowed toward the bridge, calculating distances, flow rates, wind velocity. The storm cloud overhead had completely dispersed, and only a few people were still swimming. Modular Man dove into the water and propelled himself toward the bottom.
Radar was useless under the water and the water was completely black. Even infrared vision revealed only crumpled ruin, huge chunks of bridge span lying in opaque clouds of bottom mud.
Finding the horn took him almost twenty minutes, working methodically, by feel alone. He was lucky he didn’t need to breathe.
When he rose from the water with the battered old hunting horn, the water was empty of survivors. So far as he knew, only Herne and Travnicek, of those who had fallen, had survived the end of the Wild Hunt.
Modular Man deposited Travnicek, a naked Dylan Hardesty, and a weed-snagged horn on the floor of the Crystal Castle. The Outcast was waiting there, below the dreaming Bloat, below the spectacle of Liberty’s torch. A bit of dirty East River water dribbled from the bell of the horn onto the tile floor.
The Outcast stared at the scene grimly. “So many gone… One-Eye, Bumbilino… God damn it!” His nostrils flared, the amethyst gleamed in purple fury. “How?”
Modular Man answered before Herne could speak. “Moose Man here did his best. Morning traffic’s going to be hell, that’s for sure.”
“Ye Tuhtle… destroyed the Hoont.” Dylan shuddered. The Outcast made a gesture with his hand; a large blanket appeared around the huge figure. In Dylan’s mind there was residual horror — remorse for what he’d done as Herne, fear from the memory of the bridge. The Manchesterian accent was thicker than usual. The coloring of dialect drifted into Dylan’s usual impeccable cultured British. “Ah dinnut see anything, but alla soodden sommting cum a’smashin’ inna oos and yonder bridge was toomblin’…” He pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders. He paused and corrected his speech in his head. “Sometimes I hate myself, Governor. I really do.”
“I saw it,” Travnicek said. “A hammer of gravity and air. Excitement. Blood lust. It was.. pleasant.” There were odd images in the man’s head — he was seeing with some other sense than any the Outcast had ever experienced. It made for extremely confusing but very colorful images, like falling into a whirling Mandelbrot set.
“Hartmann?” the Outcast asked, and then plucked the thoughts from Dylan. “Still alive, yet my jokers are dead… Damn it!”
The Outcast pondered. Teddy was getting tired. Staying in the Outcast’s form for the last several hours had drained him. He could feel all the links; to Bloat’s body sleeping above him, to the demons, to all the physical changes he’d made here. They weighed on him, as if the Rox were a shell that he carried tortoise-like on his back. It would be very easy to fall into dreams right now. He could fall like a ghost through the caverns and gawk at the strange creatures there; he could maybe find Kelly and talk to her again, maybe even kiss one more time.
Ted shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. Travnicek had brought those strange eyeless tendrils around toward him. Yes … he was thinking, as if in sympathy. Dylan, with the mournful demeanor of an alcoholic regarding an empty bottle of Mad Dog, had picked up his horn from the floor.
One of the guards had gone to wake Kafka; Ted could hear his adviser rising, his thoughts still confused with the vestiges of dreams.
“The Hunt has failed,” the Outcast said slowly as Kafka scuttled in from his alcove. “I think we can still gain something from this. I really do. We forced an ace and the political leader of the military to run from their own headquarters. We caused panic and fear throughout New York for most of the night.” The Outcast was nodding, more because he could sense the uncertainty in the thoughts around him than because he believed what he was saying.
“Kafka — I want you to prepare a statement. Tell them that this was just a little of what they can expect if the Rox is attacked. Tell them that the Wild Hunt wasn’t destroyed, that it can return each and every night. Say that unless Hartmann and General Zappa and the others are reined in and any plans for attacking the Rox are shelved, we will continue to defend ourselves. We’re willing to talk, to negotiate, to do whatever we can to live peacefully here in our own country, but we won’t tolerate threats. We won’t be responsible for the destruction or the deaths that will occur if President Bush and the government of the United States persist in their current course of action.”
The Outcast waved a hand at Kafka. “Or something like that, anyway. You know how to word these things. Maybe they’ll reopen negotiations.”
“Governor, there isn’t going to be a political solution to this,” Kafka said. “I’m sorry, but! don’t see it happening.”
So fired. Well I do,” Ted said, more harshly than he wanted to, then softened his tone slightly. “I have to, Kafka. I don’t want any more people to die than already have.”
“Nobody dies if you surrender,” Modular Man pointed out quickly. “We just dial that number”
“Shut up, tin-face,” Travnicek snarled. Modular Man’s mouth clicked shut audibly.
“We have a chance,” Ted continued. “We made Hartmann and the Turtle run; we’ve beaten off the two previous attacks.”
“And they beat off the Hunt,” Dylan said. “From their perspective, they’re probably calling it
a victory.”
“Then let’s get our own victory,” the Outcast said loudly. “We know where the ammo dumps are located, where they’ve placed the artillery batteries. Let’s take them out. We can use Modular Man, Pulse, some of the jokers who served in the Brigade and have experience. We can do it.”
If they hadn’t been so tired, he might have been able to rouse them. They just looked at him dully. Even their thoughts were dull. Only Kafka was moving, barking orders at the guards. Dylan clutched his horn to his breast and walked out of the hall like a wounded, dripping stag. Modular Man looked at Travnicek. “Do I have to, boss?”
“You heard the governor.” Travnicek chuckled. “Go hit some ammo dumps for your poor father, would you?”
As Modular Man took off, Ted felt the weariness over taking him. He willed the Outcast’s body to dissolve, expecting that he would find himself back in Bloat’s form again.
Wyungare regarded the other boy, the one who lay dozing beneath the tree. He showed little sign of who he eventually would grow into. But he was clearly dreaming.
The Aborigine watched with fascination as the dream generated within the dream. It was almost like watching a werewolf movie, one with decent transformation special effects. The boy’s figure blurred and lengthened and solidified. Now a man’s form stirred on the moss, a man dressed in a cowled medieval robe.
“Outcast,” said Wyungare. “Wake.”
The man opened his eyes, stared in confusion. His eyes narrowed and he struggled to his feet.
“You?” he said. “You’re in a cell.”
“Indeed,” said Wyungare. “And so are you.”
“I don’t understand.” Outcast yawned and stretched his arms.
“You will.”
“I don’t have time to understand,” said Outcast a little petulantly. “I’ve got so many things I have to do.”
“Don’t worry,” said Wyungare. “The time you’re spending here is a series of tiny bits of being that fit very comfortably into your normal time stream. Believe me, this is hardly taking any time at all.”
“Oh,” said Outcast uncertainly. “Okay.. I guess.”
“Let’s walk.” The Aborigine led the way. “Tell me about yourself.”
“There’s really not much to say,” said his companion.
But Wyungare made encouraging noises and what seemed half an eternity later, Outcast was still elaborating out all the things that comprised “really not much to say.”
“Let’s talk about your parents,” said Wyungare. Outcast looked back at him suspiciously, fearfully. “Let’s talk about loneliness.”
After a while, Outcast did.
Dead Nicholas was dead.
Ray had been to the club a couple of times before. They grilled a decent steak and a certain amount of excitement could be found in the gaming rooms in back. Usually Dead Nicholas was crowded. Tonight, though, the pale-skinned waitresses dressed in tattered shrouds that gave tantalizing glimpses of their smooth white flesh were mostly standing around the bar gossiping. There were few customers to serve. Dead Nicholas had always relied on the tourist trade. And now tourists were staying away from Jokertown in droves.
Ray got a table in the lounge. He leaned over its glass top to see who was interned in the coffin that formed its base. It was a woman, no more than a girl, a beautiful and lifelike Sleeping Beauty. The figures were supposed to be waxworks, made by the Bowery Dime Museum, but they looked damned real. Ray found himself staring intently, trying to see if it was breathing, as two waitresses raced to the table. The one with the white streak through the middle of her long black hair beat the ash-blonde. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“A babe named Cameo,” Ray said.
The waitress frowned. “She expecting you?”
Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. He held it up, showing it to the waitress. “What do you care?”
“Right this way.”
Ray recognized Cameo right away from the photo in her dossier. She was young, maybe twenty, maybe less, with long wavy blond hair and big brown eyes. She was dressed in an outfit from an old Cagney gangster movie. She looked good in it. She also wore an antique cameo on a black ribbon choker around her long, graceful neck. Ray wondered what kind of lingerie she preferred. Something old and lacy and expensive, Ray thought. Something about this girl suggested money. Lots and lots of money.
“Cameo?” Ray said. “Or would you rather I call you Ellen?”
She looked at him and frowned. “How do you know my name?”
“Shouldn’t I? It’s in your dossier.” Ray sat down in the chair opposite her. There wasn’t much else in Cameo’s private back room. The table that they sat at was small and round, well suited for intimate conversation. Atop it were Cameo’s beaded clutch purse, a cordless phone, and a crystal-stemmed goblet that she toyed with as Ray sat opposite her.
“If you’ve read my dossier,” Cameo said, “you must be from Battle.”
“That’s right. My name is Ray.” He flashed his lopsided smile. “You can call me Billy.”
“Well, Mr. Ray, what exactly do you want?”
All business, no banter, Ray thought sourly. “I have something for you.”
For the first time eagerness showed on Cameo’s face. “Did you bring the jacket?”
“Which jacket is that?” Ray asked with a frown.
“The jacket that was my price for going on this expedition of Battle’s. The leather jacket that once belonged to the ace called Black Eagle.”
Ray frowned. “What, you collect clothes from dead aces? Weird hobby.”
Cameo frowned back. On her, it looked pretty. “I thought you read my dossier.”
Ray shrugged. “I did. It said you were a psychosomatic trance channeler.”
Cameo rolled her eyes. “A psychometric trance channeler, Mr. Ray.”
“Oh. Okay. What’s that?”
“I didn’t know that my discussion with Mr. Battle would lead to my secrets becoming common knowledge,” Cameo said frostily.
“Hey, you can trust me to keep my mouth shut. Besides, we’re both on the team. I’ll see you in action tomorrow. It won’t hurt to tell me what you can do tonight.”
Cameo nodded. “All right. I read psychic impressions from objects and then channel the psyche of the dead from the things they once owned.”
“Wow,” Ray said. “Sounds like fun.”
Cameo shrugged.
“Exactly how would that help us take Ellis Island?” "Well… this is not something that’s widely known, but if the deceased is an ace —”
Ray snapped his fingers. “Then you can channel his powers!”
“If,” Cameo said, “the powers were mental in nature. I couldn’t channel, say, the Harlem Hammer’s strength, but I could channel Dr. Tachyon’s telepathy.”
“If,” Ray said, “Tachyon was dead and you had a pair of his socks or something.”
Cameo pursed her lips. “Yes. Interesting example.”
Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring they’d taken from the graveyard earlier that night. He put it on the table between them. “That explains this, then.”
“Whose is it?”
“It belonged to a guy named Brian Boyd, an ace also known as Blockhead. He’s dead now.”
Cameo reached out, not quite touching the ring.
“I guess Battle wanted you to have it so you could do your mumbo-jumbo and be ready first thing tomorrow.”
Cameo nodded abstractedly, still looking closely at the ring.
“I guess he has the jacket and he’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
Cameo looked up at him. For the first time there was uncertainty in her liquid eyes. “That when everything starts?” she asked. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Well,” Ray said, leaning close, “if you want we could have some real action tonight. Just the two of us.”
Cameo looked back at him steadily. “Tomorrow will be quite soon enough, Mr. Ray, thank you very
much.”
“It’s another cunt,” the bodysnatcher said. “Someone’s cut it with a straight razor. You can see where it’s bleeding.”
The psychologist sighed and put down the Rorschach card. “We’ve looked at fourteen cards now. You’ve seen images of sexual mutilation in every one of them.”
The bodysnatcher tilted back his chair. “I’m a twisted motherfucker, what can I say? Too bad you gave me amnesty.”
“I don’t think there’s any point in continuing with this test,” the psychologist said.
“Don’t give up,” the bodysnatcher told him. “Come on, show me the rest of the inkblots. I promise, I won’t see anything but butterflies and puppy dogs.”
The psychologist opened a drawer and put the cards away. “Why don’t we just talk instead.”
The bodysnatcher yawned, like he could care less. Or maybe the meat was just tired. Pulse was an old fuck, after all. The bus had delivered them to a low cinderblock building behind an electrified fence somewhere in Jersey. Inside, the place was bigger than it looked, with at least four levels hidden under the surface. It had airlocks instead of regular doors, and closed-circuit TV cameras everywhere. The jumpers had been fingerprinted, photographed, run through a physical, then split up for a battery of tests that reminded the bodysnatcher of college entrance exams. After that he was given to this shrink.
“You look to be much older than the other jumpers,” the psychologist said.
“I’m young at heart. And this isn’t my original body.”
“I see,” the psychologist replied. He didn’t let any reaction show on his face. “Where is your real body?”
“Worms are eating it,” the bodysnatcher said. “It was a great body. I kept myself in shape. Not like you. When’s the last time you did a sit-up?”
The shrink ignored that. “What happened to your body?”
“An ace threw oven cleaner in my eyes,” the bodysnatcher told him. “Then some weights fell on me and broke my back. The ace left me there and killed the man I was supposed to be protecting.”