George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (14 page)

Drummer Boy dwarfs his chair, dwarfs the surroundings. He fills the frame, so that it’s hard to tell if it’s a trick of the camera that makes him seem huge or if he really is that big. All six hands are in motion, tapping the arms of the chair, tapping the air as if working imaginary drumsticks, or just twitching to an unheard beat.

His expression changes in response to a question. He glares, evoking the punk rock persona that made him the front man for the hottest band going. When he speaks, all six hands clench.

“You want to know who I think should win? Who the cares! This whole thing is bogus. Everyone who says I’m just here to get publicity for the band? They’re right, ’cause that’s all this show is good for. Cheap thrills and shameless self-promotion. It sure as isn’t about heroics. Maybe Kate’s right. Maybe I should just worry about getting all the hot chicks here into bed and let the show take
care of itself.” He laughs, then, but the sound is bitter. “All of ’em except
her
. ’Cause if she wants a reputation as the Ice Queen, that’s fine with me.”

A rare look of uncertainty darkens his gaze for a moment, as if he’s realized he’s said too much. But the expression only lasts for a heartbeat, to be replaced by his usual, solid glare.

Jonathan Hive

JONATHAN SAT AT HIS
laptop and didn’t write. The cursor blinked.

Well, I’ve been voted off
.

He backspaced to the beginning and sat, tapping his hands on the kitchen table. It was smaller than the formal dining table big enough to house almost thirty people. This one would only fit ten or twelve, even though there were only three of them in the great rambling mansion they called the Discard Pile.

Or, colloquially, Losers Central.

The thing about Hollywood is that it’s made up of total fakes and posers. Television is brimming over with people who have the depth of mud puddles and the compassion of sex-starved piranhas. I’m actually glad to be off the show. Delighted. Seriously
.

He highlighted and deleted it.

The problem was how to deal with the public in a way that acknowledged the humiliation of having gotten booted in the first round without actually losing face. It wasn’t a simple thing.

“Hey!” Joe Twitch said, “Isn’t this place fucking great?”

Jonathan looked up. “Joe …” he began.

Twitch held up a hand fast enough to make a whooshing sound like some cheap kung fu sound effect.

“I know, you buy the whole ‘we lost’ thing,” Joe Twitch said. “But I’m telling you, they’re gonna bring us back. Like later in the show, we’re gonna go back in. Why else are they
keeping us in this kick-ass mansion, eh? Butlers and maids and everything. There’s a pool.”

“Joe,” Jonathan said. “We lost. They’re keeping us around because they think we’re amusing. We’re a fucking sideshow.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Joe Twitch said. “But you wait. You’ll see. These shows do it all the time. Bait and switch, they call it. Or hey, bait and twitch. Get it? Twitch and … Ow!”

Twitch slapped himself fast enough to make a little popping sound where the air rushed back in behind his arm, and Jonathan felt one of his wasps die. It was a small price to pay.

“Can’t you keep those things under control?” Twitch asked. “Fucker stung me.”

“Sorry. Sometimes a few just slip out,” Jonathan lied. “You should put something on that welt, though. I think they have something in the bathroom.”

Joe Twitch vanished. The laptop stayed the same.

Some people might say we’ve lost. I think of it as being differently victorious
.

[Backspace.]

John Fortune came into the kitchen with a couple of grocery bags on each arm. He smiled and nodded to Jonathan.

“Hey,” Jonathan said. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” Fortune said, hauling the sacks up to the countertop. “Just got a little snack food for you guys. And a new controller for the video game console. King Cobalt broke the last one.”

“He gets excited,” Jonathan agreed.

“At least he’s having fun, right?”

Fortune started unloading the food, stocking up the refrigerator and pantry.

“How’s it going?” Jonathan asked.

“What?”

“The show. You know, the next challenge. The teams.”

Curveball
, he didn’t say.

“I think things are going pretty well,” Fortune said. “They don’t really let me in on much. Just do this, get that. But Peregrine seems happy with things. And Berman’s as happy as he ever gets.”

“Berman?”

“Network guy,” Fortune said. “He was at the Chateau Marmont. Armani suit.”

“Twentysomething, visibly without conscience, hitting on all the women in descending order by cup size?”

“That’s the guy,” Fortune said. “I have the honor of delivering his dry cleaning to the office next.”

“Lucky you,” Jonathan said.

“It’s a job,” Fortune said, crushing the now-empty grocery bags into little wads and dropping them in the compactor. “Anyway. Sorry they voted you off. It’s got to suck.”

“I’ll survive,” Jonathan said. “Thanks, though.”

Fortune turned to leave and Jonathan popped a wasp free from his skin and sent it skidding out after him. Fortune was driving a Saturn sedan about three years out of date. Not a car that screamed status. Through the wasp’s eyes, Jonathan steered it into the pocket of a jacket hanging in the backseat, then waited.

If he wasn’t going to get to play the game as a contestant, he could at least play it his way. Through the wasp, he felt the car vibrate into life and pull away. He shifted his attention back to the laptop.

Fire. Why did it have to be fire?

[Backspace.]

You might think I’d be bitter. Here I am, embraced by a team of people—yes, the noun in question is team—and they drop me the first chance they get. But what you don’t see on your television is all the behind-the-scenes stuff. Why did they kick me off when Earth Witch and Wild Fox were just as powerless? Well, folks, it’s because

Jonathan stared at the screen for half a minute. [Backspace.] For half an hour, he kept at it and ended up where he’d started, with a blank page.

The car stopped, the suit jacket shifted. Jonathan turned his attention back to the wasp, crawling out of the pocket and taking wing.

Berman’s office was beautiful in a studied, artificial way. His secretary exuded both competence and pheromones, and (Jonathan assumed) was fucking Berman on the side in
exchange for a future in the industry. Fortune nodded to the woman, who responded with familiarity and pity and waved him through the door. The wasp followed.

Berman sat at his desk. Two older men and a severe-looking woman with gray at the temples were sitting in chairs that made them look shorter.

“Just hang that stuff in the closet, okay, John?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Berman,” John Fortune said.

“Okay,” Berman said, “So the Turtle’s out for week six?”

“And Mistral refuses the new terms,” one of the men said. “It’s the adversarial thing.”

“Detroit Steel has signed, though,” the woman said. “And I have a call in to Noel Matthews.”

“Really?” Berman said. “The magician guy? Couldn’t we get a real ace? Thanks, John! I owe you for that. Really. Take care.”

The door closed behind Fortune. Berman clicked his tongue. “Poor fucker,” he said. “I wouldn’t have hired him, except as a favor to his mother. Kid’s a dumb fuck; but at least he’s a nice dumb fuck. Okay, so let’s get back to the kraut. His agent’s being a total … Jesus fucking Christ! Shit, that hurts! There’s a fucking bee in here!”

Wasp, motherfucker
, Jonathan thought, as he steered the small body up to the air vent where he could still hear. Below him, the executive and his staff were running around waving papers and looking for a first aid kit. It made the day better.

“Hey,” King Cobalt said. “I have a new controller for the game console. You want to play?”

The Mexican wrestler ace was smiling so hard, Jonathan could see his cheeks pouching out under his mask. Jonathan felt the refusal welling up at the back of his mouth, but paused. At least the guy was having fun.

“Gimme a minute to finish this up,” he said. “Then, sure, I’ll kick your ass if you want.”

“You can try,” King Cobalt said and lumbered back toward the front room.

Chosen Ones: II

THE ALARM RANG AT
eleven A.M. A video conference call piped into the Hummer’s drop-down TV screen gave Team Hearts its second mission. It wasn’t a rescue this time, it wasn’t a disaster. It was a treasure hunt.

Peregrine’s image told them: “You must retrieve the contents of a locked safe. The safe is located at the end of an obstacle course. Your entire team must reach the end of the course before you may attempt to open the safe. Deliver the contents to me, tonight, at the
American Hero
headquarters, for your chance at immunity.”

The video display went black, and the members of Team Hearts stared at the screen.

“Cakewalk,” DB said. “No problem.”

“Famous last words,” Hardhat countered.

In fact, the obstacle course wasn’t difficult. They followed their GPS tracker instructions to an abandoned industrial lot. There they found a maze built with concrete walls winding through the yards and buildings. Wild Fox commented,“Sure be nice to have a bunch of flying bugs to give us a view of this.” Everyone shushed him. Drummer Boy hoisted himself to the top of the wall, which was only (from his perspective) about ten feet tall. He helped everyone else up, and by following the wall to the end, bypassed the maze entirely.

Next, they encountered about five acres of genuine military obstacle course: coils of barbed wire laid in the dirt, high walls to traverse—the works. After bypassing the maze, they
decided that was the right strategy for the rest of it. Gardener’s vines tangled with the barbed wire, and as they grew they lifted, pulling it out of the way, creating a path. Hardhat built steps over the walls, Drummer Boy’s strength helped lift people over, and Curveball’s explosions broke through a couple of obstacles. They were on a roll. After the last challenge, this almost easy success felt wonderful. But Ana was still waiting for her chance to do something.

At the other end of the obstacle course, they found a concrete drainage tunnel, large enough that even DB could walk inside without ducking.

“This thing just keeps going, doesn’t it?” Curveball said. Like all of them, she was sweating under the summer sun, streaked with dirt, and visibly tired.

At the end of the short tunnel was a locked iron gate.

“I’ll blow the lock,” Curveball said, tossing a pebble in her hand. “No problem.”

DB glowered. “I think I’ve got this one.”