“It could have been worse,” Lohengrin said.
“Words to live by.”
The Jerusha Carter Childhood
Development Institute
Jokertown, Manhattan, New York
“ANY PAIN WHEN I do this?” Dr. Finn asked. He pulled Wally’s arm straight ahead, then gently raised it.
“Nope. Not at all, Doc.” The dull ache throbbed through Wally’s shoulder. “Uh, maybe a little.”
Finn released Wally’s arm. “That bullet did a great deal of damage when it shattered inside your shoulder. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked that you didn’t suffer permanent loss of function in this arm.” He marked something on Wally’s chart. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose your leg, too,” he added absently.
“Which one?”
Finn peered at him over his eyeglasses. “After getting attacked by a crocodile? Both of them.” His tone was stern, but his eyes gleamed. “You can button your shirt now.”
Wally hopped down, gingerly, from the exam table. The bullet wound in his leg had become badly infected during the long trek across the Congo; Finn had said something about river parasites, too. They had it under control now, but after six months of antibiotic treatments, his leg still wasn’t back to full strength.
His other leg, the one the croc had chomped, still had teeth marks in it. Finn speculated it probably always would, though he readily admitted he knew very little about healing processes in iron.
Wally’s side still ached, too, from where they’d opened him up to fix his broken ribs. They’d removed a big chunk of iron to do that. Most of his skin had grown back, thick and heavy as ever, but he still had tender spots.
Finn jotted something on a prescription pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Wally. “One last set of treatments. After this you’ll be in the clear.”
“Thanks.” Wally tucked the prescription into the breast pocket of his overalls. “Let’s go check on the kids,” he said.
Finn led him down the corridor and through a sheet of construction plastic draped over the doorway where his clinic abutted the new school. The hallways here stank of fresh paint. Finn’s hooves left little dimples in the linoleum; the carpet layers weren’t finished. And judging by the rolls of carpeting stacked everywhere—all in bright, kid-friendly colors—they wouldn’t be for a while.
The Jerusha Carter Childhood Development Institute—or the “Carter School,” as people had already begun to call it—was built around a large interior courtyard. A baobab tree grew in the center of the space, shading the playground where Ghost played alongside the dozens of children Jerusha had rescued from Nyunzu. A few of the children had already been adopted; most would need years of counseling.
Wally and Finn strolled along one of the cloisters lining the courtyard. Ghost saw them. (Her name was Yerodin, but Wally still thought of her as Ghost; he probably always would.) She waved, grinning widely.
“Wallywally!” she called. “Come play!” That’s what she called him. Wallywally.
Wally waved back. He recognized her playmates: Cesar, the little boy who had translated for him and Jerusha back at the Nyunzu lab, and the joker girl covered with extra fingers. It made him feel good, somehow, that Ghost had made friends with somebody who had known Lucien.
The trio started up a little chant. “Wallywally play! Wallywally play!”
Wally wiped his eyes and grinned. “I’ll be there in a sec, you guys.”
Finn nodded toward the children. “How is she?”
Wally sighed. “She still has the nightmares. Bad nights, once in a while. Sometimes I wake up and find her standing over me.” He shrugged. “But you know what, Doc? Sometimes I think she’s stronger than I am. Honest.”
Finn gave him a funny look. He turned his attention back to the children on the playground. “Don’t sell yourself short, Wally.” They stood, watching the kids, in amicable silence for a minute or two. “Well,” said Finn, looking at his watch, “I need to do my rounds.”
“See ya, Doc.”
Finn trotted back to his clinic.
Wally tromped across the sandbox, to where Ghost and Cesar were digging a hole with a yellow plastic pail. He sat cross-legged in the sand. Ghost climbed on his lap.
“So. What do you want for lunch today, kiddo?”
“PBM,” she said. That was their special shorthand: peanut butter and mango.
Wally glanced up at the baobab. Sunlight shone through the boughs. He imagined Gardener listening to this, imagined her laughing, imagined her tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He gathered up Ghost, and smiled.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
White Sands National Monument
White Sands, New Mexico
“WHAT THE FUCK,” SAID Jay Ackroyd, biting into an apple, “is that?”
That was a baby triceratops, its colors mottled but otherwise indecipherable in the moonlight that silvered the great white dunes, which stood behind Sprout Meadows in a red Flexible Flyer mired to its hubs in soft sand.
“Kota the Baby Triceratops,” Mark Meadows said, bundled up against a biting winter wind. “It was, like, a popular toy last year, I guess.”
It turned its grinning head with the three little plush horns and the frill toward the sound of his voice and rolled its eyes fetchingly. Jay Ackroyd recoiled from the robot toy as if afraid it would go for his throat. He was as deliberately unremarkable as possible, wearing a bulky brown coat, a muffler, and a wool hat crammed down over his ears. “And you’re dragging it along why?” he asked.
Mark shrugged. “Sprout loves it.”
“Even though he gave it to her,” added Sun Hei-lian.
Ackroyd shivered ostentatiously. “Jesus,” he said. “I thought New Mexico was supposed to be desert. It’s colder than a bail bondsman’s heart out here.”
“You should see the Gobi this time of year,” Sun Hei-lian said.
“Nah, I’ll pass.” The detective dug his free hand into the pocket of his slacks.
“It was good of you to come and say good-bye, Jay,” Mark Meadows said.
Ackroyd shrugged. “Might as well. Can’t dance. You folks sure you want to do this? This is a one-way ticket you’re buying, here.”
“Well, let’s see,” Hei-lian said. “Mark’s wanted for all of the Radical’s crimes. The country I served all my life has a price on my head. We’ve got no family beyond each other. There’s just so much to hold us here.”
Jay looked at Mark. “Did you tell her she’s gonna be spending the rest of her life on a whole planet full of people who make the Borgias look like the Huxtables?”
“I was a Chinese spy, Mr. Ackroyd,” Hei-lian said. “Intrigue I can handle.”
“I remember Takis as well as you do, Jay,” Mark said. “But don’t forget, I was already on the run from the law long before the Radical took over. I can be an actual research scientist again. I can do science.” He felt himself fill with warmth. “And they can cure Sprout.”
“But, Daddy,” she said, “nothing’s wrong with me.”
He stroked her cheek. “Of course not, honey. And they can help you . . . learn to do a lot of fun new things.”
“You sure of that?” Jay asked.
Mark shrugged. “If not, I’ll do the work myself. Maybe that’s what I should have been doing all along, rather than chasing a dream that turned into nightmare for the whole world to share.”
Hei-lian’s mittened hand squeezed his. “You did many good things,” she said. “You helped a lot of people.”
“But it doesn’t make the other stuff right.”
“No. But remembering the good helps us to keep going. The world’s beginning anew for all three of us. Don’t throw that gift away, lover; it isn’t offered to very many people.”
“No kidding,” Jay said. “So, no more Cap’n Trips?”
Mark shook his head firmly. “Those days are gone forever. I’m hanging the purple top hat up for good. I learned my lesson way too well. Nobody should have tha
t kind of power, man. I sure couldn’t handle it.”
Ackroyd looked at Hei-lian. “Just one thing puzzles me, Colonel. All respect to my old bud Mark, here, he’s a skinny old geek. You’re a glamorous lady spy. What’s the attraction, anyway?”
She took hold of Mark’s arm and nestled against him. “He’s both a kind man and a good one. Since he’s the first of those I’ve ever met, I decided it’d be foolish to let go of him. Also, thank you for the compliment, Mr. Ackroyd, but I’m no youngster, either. And unequivocally retired from the spy trade.”
Jay shrugged. Taking a final bite of the apple, he hurled it far off over a nearby dune.
“You shouldn’t litter, Mr. Popinjay,” Sprout said severely.
“It’s biodegradable, kid.” Jay Ackroyd looked up at the clear star-crusted sky. “So it ends here where it all began. White Sands, New Mexico.” He held up a forefinger. “I could just pop you there. Save a lot of travel time. Cut to the chase.”
“Thanks, no,” Mark said. “I figure the trip’ll give Sprout a while to get acclimated. All of us, really.”
“Look, Daddy, look!” Sprout said, jumping up and down and pointing at the sky. “A falling star! Make a wish!”
Mark glanced up as the light grew suddenly to the glowing, spiky pink and ochre conch shape of a Takisian living starship descending from above. “I made my wishes, sweetie,” he said, “and they’re all coming true.”
Bunia
The Congo
THERE IS A GROVE near Bunia, on the grounds of the old estate and around the ruins of the house there: a garden of many strange plants and trees, many of them not native to Africa but all of them blooming impossibly here in apparent ease. There are orange trees, apple trees, mango trees; there are flowers of every description; there are cacti and Joshua trees and palms. Marvelous flowering vines wrap around many of them, blankets of gentle green punctuated with blossoms of vibrant red and electric blue and oranges so bright the color hurts the eye.
In the midst of that grove, at its very center where the house foundations can still be seen, there are two giant, intertwined baobabs, each with a trunk one hundred fifty feet or more around—savannah trees out of place here in the jungle, yet both healthy and thriving, so massive and huge that they could have been growing there for centuries.
The locals call the baobabs “The Lovers.” They lean upon each other, branches wrapping around the trunk of their partner as if in embrace, their crowns entirely woven together. Monkey fruit hangs heavy on their branches; eagles, vultures, and storks have made their twig nests in the Lovers’ tangled, sleepy heads; owls huddle in the crevices of their trunks; squirrels and lizards, snakes and tree frogs, and thousands of varieties of insects make their home there.
The locals come here for the grove’s wild beauty, but they are drawn also, they say, by its magic. Couples are married here under the shade of the baobabs, and at the end of the ritual they take a seed from the monkey fruit with them to plant in front of their own homes—because then the luck of the grove will follow them through their lives. They bring their sick here, to feed them kuka and bungha made from the trees’ bounty; it is said that the blessing of the Lovers comes sometimes to those who eat from the trees, and those with the worst illnesses might be cured, even when the doctors have given up hope.
They also say that if one stays here at night and listens very carefully in the black stillness, that you might hear a voice whispering among the branches and through the grove. A woman’s voice, calling eternally for someone.
To hear the woman’s voice is the best magic of all. If you listen closely to her, they say, you will hear the name of the person who is destined to be your own lover. The skeptics say it is only the wind, but those who know the grove best will only smile at that, and shake their heads. No, they will say. There is magic here. All you have to do is allow yourself to feel it.
And that magic will never die.
Closing Credits
STARRING
created and written by
Jerusha (Gardener) Carter
S. L. Farrell
Wally (Rustbelt) Gunderson
Ian Tregillis
Noel (Double Helix) Matthews
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Mark (Cap’n Trips) Meadows
Victor Milán
Michelle (Amazing Bubbles) Pond
Caroline Spector
Jonathan (Bugsy) Tipton-Clarke
Daniel Abraham
Tom (The Radical) Weathers
Victor Milán
CO STARRING
created by
Ellen (Cameo) Allworth
Kevin Andrew Murphy
Josephine (Hoodoo Mama) Hebert
George R. R. Martin
Colonel Sun Hei-lian
Victor Milán
Aliyah (Simoon) Malik
John Jos. Miller
Sprout Meadows
Victor Milán
Dr. Kitengi Nshombo
Victor Milán
Alicia Nshombo
Victor Milán
Mollie (Tesseract) Steunenberg
Ian Tregillis
Juliet (Ink) Summers
Caroline Spector
Ghost
George R. R. Martin
FEATURING
created by
Niobe (the Genetrix) Matthews
Ian Tregillis
Dr. Bradley Finn
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Klaus (Lohengrin) Hausser
George R. R. Martin
Barbara (Babel) Baden
S. L. Farrell
Nick (Will-o’-Wisp) Williams
Kevin Andrew Murphy
Prince Siraj of Jordan
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Leucrotta
Kevin Andrew Murphy
The Hunger
Kevin Andrew Murphy
Charles (Wrecker) Abidimi
Victor Milán
Candace (the Darkness) Sessou
Victor Milán
The Mummy
Victor Milán
Ayiyi
Victor Milán
Moto
Victor Milán
G. C. Jayewardene
Walton Simons
Jay (Popinjay) Ackroyd
George R. R. Martin
Simone (Snowblind) Duplaix
Walton Simons
Cesar
Ian Tregillis
Waikili, Eason, Abagbe, and Naadir
S. L. Farrell
Jaako (Broadcast) Kuusi
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Ffodor (Blackhole) Mathias
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Robert (The Signal on Port 950)Cumming
Daniel Abraham
WITH
created by
Denys Finch
S. L. Farrell
Billy
Daniel Abraham
Gataen and Kengo
Caroline Spector
Japhet
Caroline Spector
Kimberly Ann Cordayne
Victor Milán
Ira and Sharon LaFleur
Caroline Spector
Thomas (Digger) Downs
Steve Perrin
Sister Julie
S. L. Farrell
Mrs. Clark
Victor Milán
Devlin (Ha’penny) Pearl
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Dr. Washikala
Victor Milán
Ibada
S. L. Farrell
Makemba
Caroline Spector
Garou
Victor Milán
Nikolaas (Burrowing Owl) Buxtehude
Victor Milán
Wilma Mankiller
Daniel Abraham
Buford (Toad Man) Calhoun
Royce Wideman
Donatien (Tricolor) Racine
George R. R. Martin
Tom (Brave Hawk) Diedrich
Steve Perrin
Michael (Drummer Boy) Vogal
i
S. L. Farrell
Drake (Ra) Thomas
Walton Simons
Editor’s Afterword
Wild Cards is fiction, but the child soldiers of Africa are a grim reality. The People’s Paradise of Africa is a frightening place in our alternate world, but no more frightening than the real-world Congo. The Second Congo War began in 1998 and officially ended in 2003, but sporadic slaughter continues to this day. More than five and a half million people have died in the fighting, making it the bloodiest conflict since World War II. And that’s without adding in the casualties from the First Congo War, which ran from 1996 to 1997.
Many of the slain have been children.
Their slayers have often been children as well. You do not need a superpower to kill. A gun will do. Leucrotta, the Hunger, Ghost, the Wrecker, and the rest of our kid aces are fictional characters, but there are real children out there whose own stories are not so very different.
In Joseph Conrad’s day it was rubber and ivory that drew men down into the heart of darkness. Today it is gold, coltan, diamonds, and uranium. The darkness remains unchanged. The Western media does an admirable job of covering the conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan, Gaza, and other familiar global hot spots, yet the death of millions of Congolese does not get so much as a mention on the evening news. In Africa the ignorant armies still clash by night, yet the horror goes unseen and unremarked.