Jokertown Shuffle

I

Doctor Tachyon dodged a raking blow from her claw. Acid tears were rolling down her ruined cheeks, eating new wounds in the already suppurating mess that was her face. The joker shook her head violently. As the tears flew in all directions, small burns appeared in the cloth curtain that provided what passed for privacy in the emergency room of the Blythe Van Rensselaer Clinic. One tear struck Tach on the ear, drawing a yelp of pain.

"You did this. You. I'll kill you."

There was no mistaking to whom this threat was being directed. "TROLL!" bellowed Tachyon.

The nine-foot-tall joker didn't waste time on niceties. The curtain came down with the scream of outraged metal rings. The security chief of the clinic plucked the shrieking woman over the examining table and held her kicking, clawing, writhing form at arm's length. The acid in her spittle and tears had no effect on the horny plates that encased Troll's body.

Tachyon ran for a dispensary cart. Cursed the artificial hand as he struggled to hold the sedative bottle steady without breaking the fragile glass. Filled a hypodermic.

As he hurried back, Troll tried to warn him o$: "No, Doc, don't. You'll get burned."

"I deserve to," grunted the Takisian. He ducked in close, grabbed one of the flailing arms, and pulled it up tight behind the woman's back. Acid burned his hand and face, but he jammed the needle in and pushed the plunger home.

"Now back off!" ordered Troll, and this time Tachyon obeyed. Two minutes later, and the joker's struggles subsided. With a sigh, she slid into a drug-induced sleep. Tach slumped down onto a stool as Cody came hurrying through the doors to the ER. As befitted the chief of surgery, she was dressed in drab green scrubs. There was a spray of blood across the front of the surgical gown, and that, combined with the black eye patch, gave her a deadly look. She came to rest only inches from Tach and bent in so close that their noses almost touched. "Frau Doctor Frankenstein, I presume," said Tach lightly. The militant light did not die from her one good eye.

"What in the hell is going on down here?"

"Just another typical day in the charnel house." Concern replaced the anger. "What's wrong? What happened?" Tach made a weary gesture. Cody whirled on Troll. "Is he all right?"

"Physically. He's got a few acid burns. But she cut him… deep," Troll said.

Cody's hands closed on Tach's shoulders. "Talk to mel I get this bulletin over the fucking loudspeaker-this damn hysterical nurse screaming that you're being killed down here."

"Nothing so dramatic." Tach sighed and pushed to his feet. "Just another victim taking the author of her misery to task." Cody followed his gaze to the now supine joker. "When did she transform?" the woman asked.

"Jumped."

"Christ." A tiny shudder took her tall slender form. Tach understood. With the advent of the strange new wild card power, the sanctity of one's soul was now in jeopardy. A roaming gang of teenagers had suddenly developed the ability to trade bodies with any individual. And they used the power with the vicious playfulness of the very young-committing acts of brutality, atrocity, and humiliation before jumping back to their own bodies and leaving the victim to deal with the often tragic aftermath of a jumper's spree. Tach sighed again and swept the back of his hand across his eyes as if the action could somehow banish weariness. "I must now call Mr. Nesbitt and inform him his wife is herebut not the wife he recalls."

"Come to Jokertown and lose yourself," said Cody bitterly.

"It's no wonder we've been virtually abandoned by the nats. They're terrified. Hell, even I'm worried as I walk home at night. How long until some covetous joker decides she'd like my body?"

"Hush," cautioned Tachyon.

"I don't care if they hear. It's a dirty little joker secret. Some of them know how to get to these kids, and rather than tell us or the police, they'd rather take care of themselves first."

Tach looked sadly at the collection of protoplasmic nightmares that filled his emergency room. "Can you blame them?" Cody shuddered, and Tach caught a wisp of memory. Once Cody had come terrifyingly close to jokerdom. And Tach himself carried the wild card, twined in a loving, latent sleep about his genes. At any moment the virus could manifest and turn him into a hideous monster or grant him the blessing of death. He didn't even consider the third, golden option-that he would beat the odds and become one of the lucky few-an ace, blessed with metahuman powers.

"Not so easy to be righteous, is it?" he asked softly, and Cody blushed.

"In our dreams we're all heroes," the woman replied. "I would like to hope I'd be strong, tough it out-"

"And you probably would be. I'm the coward who could not face life as a joker."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"I had a date."

"Cancel it. I'll cook dinner." Tachyon stared at her. Then, surprisingly, the lashes dropped to veil the single eye. Gruffly she added, "Chris is going to a friend's… slumber party. I'm enjoying it. By next year, I'm convinced, such innocent pleasures will seem tame, and he'll be looking for girl action."

"Cody, you're babbling. Why?"

"You're the telepath. Figure it out!" And she left with an aggressive click of high heels.

Jay Ackroyd caught him on the steps of the clinic. Ackroyd was a moderately successful private detective who at times annoyed Tachyon worse than fleas and on occasion could actually be useful-due more to his ace power as a teleporter than any real brains was a secret opinion that Tach held. Jay was too glib, and Tach did not think it was a mask for a serious mind.

The minute the thought manifested, Tachyon felt guilty. After all, it was Jay who had saved the alien from an assassin a year and a half ago. The Takisian realized that some of his waspishness was due to Jay's having caught the alien doing a silly little hop-skip step up the stained concrete steps. "Get lucky last night?"

Tach's frowned deepened. Had he spent the evening with any one of his normal complement of female companions, he might have responded with the obligatory leer and nudge. But this was Cody. And though their passionate kissing last night had not lead through the bedroom door, Tach was beginning to nourish passionate hopes. What happened behind that bedroom door was no one's business. Tach frowned at the nondescript human in front of him.

"Did you come by just to annoy me, or has my money actually garnered a few results?"

"You think what I do is easy?"

"No, tedious-which is why I do not do it myself. Besides, I'm out of the law enforcement business. I tend to my clinic now, and-"

"-cultivate your garden," concluded Jay, startling Tachyon with his knowledge of Voltaire.

"By the ideal, you read," said Tach as they stepped through the front doors.

"Yeah, it impresses babes."

Tach nodded a friendly good morning to Mrs. Chicken Foot and crossed to the elevator. As they rode up the four floors to Tach's office, the alien could feel the human's mood sobering as he mentally marshaled the information he had obtained. Tach's good mood drained like water sucked into desert sand. In another, more impatient time, the Takisian would have yanked the knowledge from Jay's mind, but this was something he preferred to delay-forever if possible. Unfortunately an ostrichlike response to Blaise was dangerous.

In the office Jay lounged on the couch. Tachyon stood with his back to the room, gazing out the window at Jokertown laid out before him like a pustular sore on the body of Manhattan. Was it age or depression, or had the vista actually grown shabbier and dirtier over the past twenty-five years? "It's so ugly," Tachyon murmured.

"You just noticed?" Jay's tone offered no comfort. Tach turned to face him.

"Perhaps I have less stomach for it now"

"Then you better get a barf bag because what I've got to tell you doesn't qualify as pretty" Jay pulled out a notebook, flipped it open, and began to read. His voice had lost much of its joking edge. "Blaise is running with a jumper gang."

The desk chair was a welcome support to legs suddenly gone shaky. Tach longed to clasp his hands, but the plastic monstrosity at the end of his right arm offered no comfort. Instead, his left hand cupped his right elbow, both arms drawn protectively across his aching stomach.

"Ideal… now he's far too powerful."

"It gets better. He also has ties to the Shadow Fists…" Tach's head jerked up. Jay didn't miss the reaction. "Got friends there too?" asked Jay dryly. Tach mutely shook his head, waved to Ackroyd to continue. "Look, Tachyon, you haven't got a priest, and if you can't trust your private dick, who the hell can you trust?"

"No one," said Tachyon softly.

Jay watched him for a moment longer, then shrugged and resumed. "While running with the jumpers, your charming grandson has engaged in the usual round of fun-beatings, muggings, robberies, nights on the town courtesy of the victim's credit card." Jay hesitated.

Tach leapt on it, imperious and demanding. "What?"

"Everything seems to point to Blaise being the jumper who took over Ira Greenstein's body, and-"

"I know what happened to him." His tone was shrill. Tach regained control of his voice. "Ira has been my tailor for twenty years. How many other people whom I have patronized are in jeopardy?"

"You know Blaise better than I do."

"No, I only thought I did."

"The alien delinquent has graduated from brutality. He's in the big leagues now-murder. Couple of my sources say he blew away a small-time Shadow Fist soldier named Christian."

"Murder's not new to Blaise. He killed when he was in that revolutionary cell in France."

"No, he mind-controlled other people to kill. It's a big step to holding the gun yourself. I personally wouldn't know-I hate the fucking things-but for Blaise it's a turn-on. He kills for fun and kicks, and likes every moment of it. That was the one thing my informants agreed on. That, and that they were terrified of the little bastard."

"Is he… is he in Manhattan?" Tach hated himself for the hesitation that made his voice as ragged as a broken saw. It revealed his fear, and he didn't like to admit, even to himself, that he was afraid of his grandson.

"No, I think he's based on the Rox, but he and his gang of delinquents make raids into the city."

"You think?"

Jay correctly interpreted the added emphasis on the final word as censure. "Look, you hired me to get information on the kid, not recover him. And while I'm not a coward, I'm also not stupid. People who go to the Rox generally don't come back."

"And if I hired you to bring him back?"

"I'd say no. I'm a private eye, not a one-man commando unit."

For a long time they sat in silence. It was hard for Tachyon to ask the question that was battering impatiently at the back of his teeth. Over the years he had been threatened by enemies far more terrifying than Blaise-the Astronomer, the Swarm, Hartmann. Why, then, was he so afraid? Or did a surfeit of love translate into a greater sense of betrayal and terror when that love died?

"Am I in danger?"

They locked eyes. "I don't know. Given your past history, yeah, you're probably in danger. You imprisoned his father, and killed his guardian, sacrificed his tutor to save your neck. Not to mention dressing him in puce and lace-"

"You also bear some responsibility in this. What about Atlanta, when he was possessed by that creature? He mindcontrolled that poor joker, made him tear himself to pieces."

Jay shrugged. "Okay, neither one of us are prime candidates for father of the year. The point is, what he thinks will hurt you most. Maybe he'll just be content to fuck over everyone around you."

Tachyon stood, began to pace. "I can't live with that burden."

"I don't see that you've got any choice."

"There must be some other option."

"I can think of one-deal with Blaise."

Tach's stomach felt as if lead shot had been dropped into it. He shook his head. "I can't deal with him."

"Why not?"

"That would require killing him."

Jay's eyes flicked in reaction to that bald statement.

"Jesus Christ, what is it with you Takisians? You've never heard of psychiatrists?"

"Do you want to capture him for me?"

Jay had the grace to blush. He looked down. "Not particularly."

Tach turned away. "I am wounded, Jay, wounded in ways which can't even be seen. I just want to be left alone."

"That's not an option that's open for you." There was a grimness, a seriousness to the detective's expression that Tachyon had never seen before. It was a little frightening. "There are people who are actors on history. They can't step off the stage no matter how much they might like to. You're one of those people-you poor bastard."

There was no answer to that. Again silence held the room. Tach finally crossed to the bar, and poured out a brandy. "A little early in the day, isn't it?"

"Don't nag. You have unalterably depressed me, now you must take the consequences."

"Hey, it ain't my problem. You can go to hell anyway it suits you. Just don't try to blame me."

Tach set aside the snifter, untasted. "And what of Mark?"

"No trace. Oh, I know he's somewhere within the environs of greater Manhattan, but I don't know where."

"Why is this so difficult? Mark Meadows is a lovely but totally ineffectual person. How could he evade you this long?"

"He's had some help. The jokers seem to be protecting him, and most important, he doesn't want to be found."

"His protectors must know that we can be trusted."

"Look, if we get the information, how long until the cops have it? Meadows is a wanted fugitive. Don't forget that." "All this fuss over a child-custody hearing. They've ruined a man for nothing."

"They've ruined him for being an ace. His little girl was just the excuse."

"What lovely times we live in." Tach sighed. "Well, keep looking."

Jay rose. "And Blaise?"

"You've told me what I needed to know. Now it's just a matter of warning my friends and protecting. myself."

Jay hesitated at the door. "You won't…"

"He is my grandchild. The last of my blood. The only heir I will ever have. I can't…" His voice, too, died away to nothing.

" I think you're a fool."

"So you have said before." Jay left. And Tachyon drained the brandy.

The shrilling of the telephone dimly penetrated the thunder and rush of the shower. Tach heard the answering machine kick in. He continued to shampoo his long red hair as his own familiar voice droned through the message. There was the nasal squeal of the signal, and then Cody's voice. "I've rented us a room at the Ritz." Sputtering, Tach shut off the flow of water. "There comes a time when you can't hide from sex anymore. Meet me."

Tach just stood as shampoo ran down his forehead, and a sudden rush of testosterone brought his cock to rigid anticipatory attention. The soap hit and burned his eyes. Cursing, he switched the water back on, and quickly rinsed. He hurried but seemed to be scarcely moving. His fingers had become clumsy with surprise and nervous expectation. He picked his finest outfit. He wore it only to Hiram's annual Wild Card Day dinners, but tonight merited such elegance.

As he fingered the soft material, he wondered at her choice for a rendezvous. The hotel seemed rather sterile. But her son, Chris, was a factor at her apartment, and to enter Tachyon's would seem like too much a capitulation for this proud woman.

After dressing, he critically surveyed his reflection in the mirror. Short, yes, by human standards, but very slim. The riot of red curls brushed the shoulders of his coat. The lines about mouth and eyes were too deep for his ninety-one years, but the years on earth had not been kind. The worst flaw was that ugly extrusion on the end of his right arm. He wanted to be able to caress her with all the mastery of a Takisian mentat prince.

The front door bell shrilled. The boy with the flowers. Tach grabbed his wallet, and forced himself not to run.

At the hotel door he gave one final twitch to the goldtipped lace at his throat, adjusted the roses, and gave one quick peremptory knock with the artificial hand.

"It's open, come in," called Cody.

Tachyon entered. There was a room-service cart at the foot of the bed. Caviar, petits fours, a wedge of camembert cheese, and most important, champagne cooling in a silver bucket.

Cody stepped out of the bathroom. There was something hesitant, almost awkward about her stance. Tach understood. He felt damnably nervous and awkward himself. He found himself focusing on the black negligee she was wearing. It revealed her charms in startling ways, and Tach was a little surprised that she would wear such a sexy gown. But then, what did he really know of this woman and her fantasies? He had always seen her as the perfectly cool, incredibly professional surgeon. Perhaps she liked to be a houri in the bedroom to offset that rather severe image.

"I want you to promise me something."

"Anything," said Tach as he proffered the roses. They were like splashes of blood against the black of her gown. "Don't read my mind."

Tach was puzzled, a thread of suspicion curled in his mind. But his cock was demanding instant attention, and if he refused he might never bed this woman. "All right," he said slowly. "But might I know why?"

"I need to feel… safe."

He laughed to off-set the sense of hurt and the taint of disappointment that had wormed its way into his libidinous pleasure. "That's funny, I always feel safer when I can joincompletely-with my lovers."

"Well, do this for me. Promise me."

" I promise."

She seemed vastly relieved because she suddenly smiled. The bouquet of roses went sailing into a chair. "Do you want to waste time with all this romantic bullshit?"

"Did you have a better suggestion?" He felt like he was enunciating past a mouthful of cotton balls.

"Uh-huh." She walked to him, pushed his jacket off his shoulders.

As he wriggled and jerked to free himself from the confining material, Tach leaned forward and kissed the hollow at the base of her throat. He kicked off his shoes, and suddenly got a lot shorter without the benefit of the two-inch heel. His eyes were now exactly at breast level. It was an attractive vista. Her hands were at his belt now, opening the waist band of his pants, pulling them down. They snagged at his ankles, and he tottered trying to regain his balance. She chuckled far back in her throat and gave him a push that toppled him onto the bed. Reached down and grabbed his pants, pulling them off as if she were shucking an ear of corn.

His jockey shorts came with the pants, and he felt rather vulnerable and silly in his stockings and shirt, his erection rampant among the coppery hairs of his brush.

Cody tumbled onto the bed with him, and pulled him over on top of her. Tangling her hands in his hair, she pulled his face down and kissed him hard. Her tongue slipped between his teeth, and it was that clumsy adolescent sucking, coupled with the faint snick of a door opening, that alerted him to the danger. He tried to roll away, but the false Cody's fingers twined and clutched at his hair like thorn branches.

A quick mentatic check revealed that there were seven opponents in the room, counting the woman in the bed, and a terrifying ice wall of mental shielding that could only be Blaise. Tach's mind control lashed out. The false Cody dropped into slumber and one other assailant. The Takisian was then busy fending off a mind attack from Blaise. A heavy weight landed between his shoulder blades, knocking the wind from his body. He sucked desperately for air like a failing pump billow, then tried to exhale violently as the chloroform-soaked cloth covered his mouth and nose. It was hopeless. The fumes from the drug ate at his control, at consciousness. Tachyon managed to roll onto his back. His finally vision was of Blaise pouring out a glass of champagne and raising it in an ironic salute.

When the first jolt of electricity arced through his testicles, Tachyon thought he would die.

He had been climbing slowly toward consciousness, dimly aware of a musty, moldy odor, a too-full bladder, the dull headache that was the legacy of a drug-induced sleep, then…

PAINT A scream ripped like acid from his throat, and Tach's body flopped like a dying fish on the decrepit old mattress upon which he rested. A crushing vise closed about his mind. Tachyon tasted Blaise. Panicked. Fought back with everything he had. The pressure retreated. He could focus now-nightmare vision-Blaise wielding a cattle prod. This couldn't be real, a dreaaaam. Another blast of soul-searing agony. Nobody could hurt this much and stay alive. The jaws were back. Teeth penetrating the perfect crystal sphere of his mental shields.