“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 tired. 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?”