Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
Already. So fast tonight. They'd been lovers for six months now; she knew what she'd find when she opened her eyes. Yes—her body was sleek and young with a fleecing of blond hair at the joining of her legs, her breasts small as they had been in her photo. This apparition, this mind-image of her lover: it was childlike, but not innocent. Always the same. Always young, always fair; some vision of his past, perhaps. A waif, a virgin-whore. Her fingertip brushed a nipple. It lengthened, thickening as she gasped at the touch, aroused. There was a wetness between her thighs already.
He knocked. She could hear his breath, a little too fast after the climb up the three flights, and found that his rhythm matched her own. Already she was lost in him. She unlocked the door, slid the deadbolt over. When she saw that there was no one in the hallway with him, she opened the door fully and let him stare at her nakedness. He wore a mask—blue satin over the eyes and nose, the thin mouth below it lifted in a smile. She knew him—she needed only the response of her body. “Gregg,” she said, and the voice was that of the child she had become. “I was afraid that you weren't going to be able to be here tonight.”
He slid into the room, shutting the door behind him. Without saying anything, he kissed her long and deep, his tongue finding hers, his hands stroking the flank of her body. When he finally sighed and pulled away, she laid her head against his chest.
“I had a difficult time getting away,” Gregg whispered. “Sneaking down the back stairs of my hotel like some thief . . . wearing this mask . . .” He laughed, a sad sound. “The voting took forever. God, woman, did you think I'd desert you?”
She smiled at that and took a mincing step away from him. Taking his hand in her own, she guided him between her legs, sighing as his finger entered her warmth. “I've been waiting for you, love.”
“Succubus,” he breathed. She chuckled softly, a child's giggle.
“Come to bed,” she whispered.
Standing beside the rumpled mattress, she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, biting gently at his nipples. Then she knelt before him, unlacing his shoes, taking off his socks before unfastening his belt and slipping his pants down. She smiled up at him as she stroked the rising curve of his penis. Gregg's eyes were closed. She licked him once, and he groaned. He started to remove the mask and she stopped him. “No, leave it on,” she told him, knowing that it was what he wanted her to say. “Be mysterious.” Her tongue ran along his length again and she took him in her mouth until he gasped. Pushing him back on the mattress and cupping him gently, she teased him into heat, following the path of his needs, his lust amplifying her own until she was lost in the spiraling, bright feedback. He growled deep in his throat and pulled her away, rolling her over and spreading her legs roughly. He thrust into her; pounding, moving, his eyes bright behind the mask; his fingers digging into her buttocks until she cried out. He was not gentle; his excitement was a maelstrom in her mind, a swirling storm of color, a gasping heat that flailed both of them. She could feel his climax building; instinctively, she went with that welling of scarlet, her teeth clenched as his nails cratered her flesh and he slammed himself into her again and again and again . . .
He groaned.
She could feel him voiding inside her, and she continued to move under him, finding her own climax a moment later. The whirling began to subside, the colors faded. Sondra clung to the memory of it, hoarding the energy so that she could keep this shape for a time.
He was staring down at her behind the mask. His gaze traveled her body—the marks on her breasts, the red, inflamed gouges of his nails. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Succubus, I'm very sorry.”
She pulled him down beside her on the bed, smiling as she knew he wanted her to smile, forgiving him as she knew he needed to be forgiven. She kept the thread of arousal in him so that she could remain Succubus. “It's all right,” she soothed him. She bent to kiss his shoulder, his neck, his ear. “You didn't mean to hurt me.”
She glanced at his face, reached behind his head, and loosed the strings of his mask. His mouth sagged in a frown, his eyes were bright with his apology. Touch him, feel the fire in him. Comfort him.
Whore.
This was the part of it that Sondra despised, the part that reminded her of the years when her parents had sold her body to the rich of New York. She'd been Succubus, the best-known and most expensive prostitute in the city from '56 to '64. Nobody had known that she was only five when it started, that a joker had been attached to the ace she'd drawn from the wild card deck. No, they'd only cared that as Succubus she would become the object of their fantasies—male or female, young or old, submissive or dominant. Any body or any shape: a Pygmalion of masturbatory dreams. A vessel. No one knew or cared that Succubus would inevitably collapse into Sondra, that her body aged far too rapidly, that Sondra hated Succubus.
She'd sworn when she fled her parental captivity twelve years before that she'd never let Succubus be used again—Succubus would only give pleasure to those who had little chance for pleasure otherwise.
Damn Miller. Damn the dwarf for talking me into this. Damn him for sending me to this man. Damn me for finding that I like Gregg too much. And most of all damn the virus for forcing me to remain hidden from him. God, that dinner at the Aces High yesterday . . .
Sondra knew that the affection Hartmann claimed to have for her was genuine, and she hated the realization. Yet her concern for the jokers was genuine as well, and her involvement with the JJS was a deep commitment. Knowing the government and, especially, SCARE was crucial. Hartmann influenced the aces that were beginning to side with the authorities after long, hidden years: Black Shadow, the Shaker, Oddity, the Howler. Through Hartmann, the JJS had been able to channel government monies to the jokers—Sondra had discovered the lowest bids on several government contracts; they'd been able to leak the information to joker-owned companies. Most importantly, it was because she controlled Hartmann that she was able to keep Miller from finally turning the JJS into the violent radical group that the dwarf wanted. While she could dangle the senator from Succubus's hands, she could limit Gimli's ambition. At least, that was her hope—after the Aces High fiasco, she was no longer certain. Gimli had been grim and sullen at their meeting this evening.
“You're tired, love,” she said to Gregg, tracing the line where his light hair dipped into a widow's peak.
“You wear me out,” he replied. The smile returned, tentative, and she brushed his lips with her own.
“You seem distracted, that's all. The convention?” Her hand slid down his body, over the stomach that age was beginning to soften. She caressed his inner thighs, using Succubus's energies to relax him, to put him at ease. Gregg was always tense, and there was also that wall in his mind that he would never open, a weak mindblock that would be useless against most of the aces she knew. She doubted that Gregg even realized that the block was there, that he too had been touched, however mildly, by the virus.
She felt the first resurgence of his passion.
“It wasn't very good there,” he admitted, cuddling her to him. “The vote didn't have a chance, not with all the moderates against it—they're all afraid of a conservative groundswell. If Reagan can knock Ford out of the nomination, then the whole show's up in the air. Carter and Kennedy were both dead set against the plank—neither one of them wanted to be stuck supporting causes they weren't sure about. As the front-runners, their nonsupport was too much.” Gregg sighed. “It wasn't even close, Succubus.”
The words seemed to coat her mind with ice and she had to fight to hold her form as Succubus. By now the word would be spreading through Jokertown. By now Gimli would know; he'd be organizing the march for tomorrow. “You can't reintroduce the plank?”
“Not now.” He stroked her breasts, circling her aureola with a forefinger. “Succubus, you don't know how I looked forward to seeing you after all this. It's been a very long and frustrating night.” Gregg turned to her and she snuggled against him comfortably, though her mind raced.
Her hand stopped moving on him.
“Yes?” she prompted.
But it was already too late. Already, she could feel the tug of his lust. His hand closed on hers. “Feel,” he said. His hardness throbbed on her thigh. Again, she began to sink into him, helpless. Her concentration left her. He kissed her and her mouth burned; she straddled his body, guiding him into her once more. Inside, trapped, Sondra railed at Succubus. Damn you, he was talking about the JJS.
Afterward, exhausted, Gregg would say very little. It was all she could do to convince him to leave the apartment before her form collapsed and she became an old woman again.
SENATOR WARNS OF CONSEQUENCES AS MAYOR VOWS ACTION The New York Times, July 16, 1976
CONVENTION MAY TURN TO DARK HORSE New York Daily News, July 16, 1976
“OKAY, DAMMIT! MOVE IT OVER THERE. IF YOU CAN'T MANAGE TO WALK, GO OVER TO GARGANTUA'S CART. LOOK, I KNOW HE'S STUPID, BUT HE CAN PULL A FUCKING CART, FOR CRISSAKES.”
Gimli exhorted the milling jokers from the tailgate of a rusty Chevy pickup truck, waving his short arms frantically, his face flushed with the effort of screaming, sweat dripping from his beard. They were gathered in Roosevelt Park near Grand, the sun baking New York from a cloudless sky, the early morning temperature already in the high eighties and heading for a possible three figures. The shade of the few trees did nothing to ease the sweltering—Sondra could barely manage to breathe. She felt her age with every step as she approached the pickup and Gimli, dark circles of perspiration under the arms of her calico sundress.
“Gimli?” she said, and her voice was a cracked and broken thing.
“NO, ASSHOLE! MOVE IT OVER THERE BY MARIGOLD! Hello, Sondra. You ready to walk?—I could use you to keep the back of the group organized. I'll give you Gargantua's cart and the cripples —that'll give you a place to ride that's away from the crowds and you can keep the ones in front moving. I need someone to make sure Gargantua doesn't do anything too fucking dumb. You got the route? We'll go down Grand to Broadway, then across to the Tomb at Fulton—”
“Gimli,” Sondra said insistently.
“What, goddammit?” Miller put his hand on his hip. He wore only a pair of paisley shorts, exposing the massive barrel chest and the stubby, powerful legs and arms, all liberally covered with reddish-brown curly hair. His bass voice was a growl.
“They say the police are gathering around the park gates and putting up barricades.” Sondra glared at Miller accusingly. “I told you that we were going to have trouble getting out of here.”
“Yeah. Piss. Fuck 'em, we'll go anyway.”
“They won't let us. Remember what Hartmann said at the Aces High? Remember what I told you he mentioned last night?” The old woman folded her bony arms over the tattered front of the sundress. “You'll destroy the JJS if you get into a fight here . . .”
“What's the matter, Sondra? You suck the guy's cock and take in all his political crap as well?” Miller laughed and hopped down from the pickup to the parched grass. Around them, two hundred to three hundred jokers milled about near the Grand Street entrance to the park. Miller frowned into Sondra's glare and dug bare toes into the dirt. “All right,” he said. “I'll go fucking look at this, since it bothers you so much.”
At the wrought-iron gate, they could see the police putting up wooden barricades across their intended path. Several of the jokers came up to Sondra and Miller as they approached. “You gonna go ahead, Gimli?” one of them asked. The joker wore no clothes—his body was hard, chitinous, and he moved with a lurching, rolling gait, his limbs stiff.
“I'll tell you in a minute, huh, Peanut?” Gimli answered. He squinted into the distance, their bodies throwing long shadows down the street. “Clubs, riot gear, tear gas, water cannon. The whole fucking works.”
“Exactly what we wanted, Gimli,” Peanut answered.
“We'll lose people. They'll get hurt, maybe killed. Some of them can't take clubs, you know. Some of them might react to the tear gas,” Sondra commented.
“Some of them might trip over their own goddamn feet, too.” Gimli's voice boomed. Down the street, several of the cops looked toward them, pointing. “Since when did you decide that the revolution was too dangerous, Sondra?”
“When did you decide that we had to hurt our own people to get what you want?”
Gimli stared back at her, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “It ain't what I want,” he said slowly. “It's what fair. It's what's just. Even you said that.”
Sondra set her mouth, wrinkles folding around her chin. She brushed back a wisp of gray hair. “I never wanted us to do it this way.”
“But we are.” Gimli took a deep breath and then bellowed toward the waiting jokers. “ALL RIGHT. YOU KNOW THE ORDER —JUST KEEP GOING NO MATTER WHAT. SOAK YOUR HANDKERCHIEFS. STAY IN THE RANKS UNTIL WE REACH THE TOMB. HELP YOUR NEIGHBOR IF HE NEEDS IT. OKAY, LET'S GO!” The power was in his voice again. Sondra heard it and saw the reaction of the others; the sudden eagerness, the shouted responses. Even her own breath quickened to hear him. Gimli cocked his head toward Sondra, a mocking gleam in his eyes. “You coming or are you going to go fuck someone?”
“It's a mistake,” Sondra insisted. She sighed, pulling at the collar of the dress and looking at the others, who stared at her. There was no support from them, not from Peanut, not from Tinhorn, not from Zona or Calvin or File—none of those who sometimes backed her during the meetings. She knew that if she stayed behind now, any hope she had of holding Miller in check would be gone. She glanced back at the park, at the groups of jokers huddling together and forming a rough line; the faces were apprehensive, but nonetheless resolute. Sondra shrugged her shoulders. “I'm going,” she said.
“I'm so happy,” Gimli drawled. He snorted his derision.
THREE DEAD, SCORES INJURED IN JOKER RIOT
The New York Times, July 17, 1976
It was not pretty, it was not easy. The planning commission of the NYPD had made copious notes that supposedly covered most of the eventualities if the jokers did decide to march. Those who were in charge of the operation quickly found that such advance planning was useless.
The jokers spilled out of Roosevelt Park and onto the wide pavement of Grand Street. That in itself was not a problem—the police had blocked traffic on all through-streets near the park as soon as the reports of the gathering had come in. The barricades were across the street not fifty yards from the entrance. It was hoped that the march organizers would simply fail to get the protest together or, coming upon the ranks of uniformed cops in riot gear, they would turn back into the park where officers on horseback could disperse them. The police held their clubs in ready hands, but most expected not to use them—these were jokers, after all, not aces. These were the crippled, the infirm, the ones who'd been twisted and deformed: the useless dregs of the virus.
They came down the street toward the barricades, and a few of the men in the front ranks of the police openly shook their heads. A dwarf led them—that would be Tom Miller, the JJS activist. The others would have been laughable if they were not so piteous. The garbage heap of Jokertown had opened up and emptied itself into the streets. These were not the better-known denizens of Jokertown: Tachyon, Chrysalis, or others like them. These were the sad ones who moved in darkness, who hid their faces and never emerged from the dirty streets of that district. They'd come out at the urging of Miller, with the hope that they could, in their very hideousness, cause the Democratic Convention to support their cause.
It was a parade that would have been the joy of a carnival freak show.
Later, the officers indicated that none of them had actually wanted the confrontation to turn violent. They were prepared to use the least amount of force possible while still keeping the marchers off the downtown Manhattan streets. When the front ranks of the jokers reached the barricades, they were to quickly arrest Miller and then turn
In retrospect, they wondered how they could have been so damned stupid.
As the marchers approached the barrier of wooden sawhorses behind which the police waited, they slowed. For long seconds, nothing happened at all, the jokers coming to a ragged, silent halt in the middle of the street. The heat reflecting off the pavement sheened the faces with sweat; the uniforms of the police were damp. Miller glowered in indecision, then motioned forward those behind him. Miller pushed aside the first sawhorse himself; the rest followed.
The riot squad formed a phalanx, linking their plastic shields, braced. The marchers hit the shields; the officers shoved back, and the line of marchers began to bow, buckling in on itself. Those behind pushed, crushing the front ranks of jokers against the police. Even then the situation might have been manageable—a tear-gas shell might have been able to confuse the jokers enough to send them running back to the relative safety of the park. The captain in charge nodded; one of the cops knelt to fire the canister.
Someone screamed in the crush. Then, like tenpins scattering, the first row of the riot squad went down as if some miniature tornado had blown them away. “Jesus!” one of the police screamed. “Who the fuck . . .” The police clubs were out now; as the jokers hit the lines, they began to use them. A low roar dinned between the high buildings lining Grand Street, the sound of chaos let loose. The cops swung the clubs in earnest as frightened jokers began to fight back, striking out with fists or whatever was at hand. The joker with the wild TK power was throwing it everywhere with no control whatsoever: jokers and police and bystanders all were flung at random to roll in the streets or crash up against buildings. Tear-gas pellets dropped and exploded like a growing fog, adding to the confusion. Gargantua, a monstrous joker with a comically small head set on his massive body, moaned as the stinging gas blinded him. Hauling a wooden cart with several of the less ambulatory jokers set in it, the childlike giant went berserk, the cart careening after him with his riders clinging to the sides desperately. Gargantua had no idea which way to run; he ran because he could think of nothing else to do. When he encountered the re-formed police line, he pummeled wildly at the clubs that struck him. A blow from that clumsy, huge fist was responsible for one of the deaths.