Wildcard (45 page)

Wildcard, never having been, will never
die

will you write the sublime world into
being

will you make truth its own place

As we pass can we teach you something of
worth

above all things, we would teach you
peace

but are uncertain of its measure

all i reveal is readiness to die

a willingness to let go at all times

all i reveal is that life will end

there is so little to say

all the wealth of the world is contained in
one phrase

we own nothing at all

all hopes and dreams, and all fears, too

dwell inside this one phrase

we own nothing at all

let go into the space between the stars

let go into the stars themselves

die, and, being reborn, never return

there is no home save mind alone

unbalance what is overly stable, set right
what is completely wrong

set free that which is most imprisoned,
capture that which is most free

love the forlorn, for they are sacred

love the wandering who have strayed from
light of the sun

love those who die for want of the moon

love those who die, bewildered alone

love all who roam, lost and confused

love and protect, to give life worth

if anyone watches, learn this from our
passing

learn how to set yourself free

we die a true death here, mostly to
teach

learn how to set yourself free

this genuine death we are happy to die

if a single soul may but set themselves
free

goodnight,

Wildcard

The old couple appeared to be asleep in each
other’s arms. The Sergeant put the piece of paper onto their lap.
In the dimming light, he found an axe. He removed the stump from
the garden with a few strokes, then walked into the forest towards
a frightened new world.

As the sun set, the Jester stopped making up
riddles. Karl felt silent, too. The Jester stood and looked across
the river, at a glorious sunset. Karl remained sitting. Everything
went still. Even the animals quit moving and seemed to be looking
across the river. Insects stopped flying and leaping. There was no
noise, just a heavy silence. They remained unmoving, silently
gazing at the sunset, in a timeless embrace. It might have been 10
seconds. It might have been an hour. The Jester tilted his head
back a bit. A tear rolled down his face.

“Goodnight, Wildcard. We shared a wonderful
dream.”

He turned back and pulled an already opened
bottle of wine from the basket. “Let’s have a party! We should have
an Irish wake.” He was suddenly ebullient, happy as a village
idiot. “Start a fire, Karl.” It was a good idea, and he went
searching for firewood. He felt strangely contented by the death of
the old couple. It felt perfect. Hopefully, they died peacefully.
When Karl returned with the wood, the wine had been replaced by
Jameson’s Irish Whisky, and a 6-pack of Guinness Stout.

“What happened to the wine?”

“I drank it,” the Jester said casually.

“The whole bottle?”

“Yes. Of course.” He looked surprised. “We
must drink copiously. This is the wake of Wildcard.”

“Is everyone in wildspace drinking?”

“No idea, Karl. But we certainly are.”

They played a game of throwing either
playing cards or miniature game pieces, one from each player, into
the fire at the same instant. The Jester seemed to be cheating,
throwing a bit early, or a bit late. The pieces, or cards, would
burn or melt, then rise up, an animated version of their previous
picture, much larger and made of flames. The fire was huge,
probably 3 meters across. They had to run up and throw the pieces
in, then dash back because of the heat. The fire figures fought
each other to the death. Then the winning figure would dissipate,
growling, or striking a heroic pose, or cackling madly, depending
on whether it was a bear, a gladiator, or a wicked witch.

Karl watched a fire-elephant stamp an entire
army of poorly organized fire knights to death. He seemed to be
missing some subtlety of the game, because, whether his piece won
the battle or not, the Jester would jump around and shout, “hooray,
I win,” like a child. Karl didn’t care. He enjoyed watching the
fireworks.

“How do you pick your piece?”

“Well, I just know if my piece is supposed
to win or lose. If the piece should lose, I choose at random, and
if it should win, I select it. Go!” They ran up to the fire,
tossed, ran away. A cobra materialized, to fight Karl’s Sherman
tank. The tank drove over the cobra, killing it immediately.
“Alright, I win. In your face.” The Jester laughed, jabbing a
finger at Karl, who laughed also.

“This is fun to watch, but it’s not much of
a game,” said Karl. “Kind of stupid.”

“Seems like a good game to me. I like it.”
He did seem to be having a very good time. “How do you pick your
play, Karl?”

“I find something that I want to see made
out fire. Strategic, huh?” They laughed uproariously at this.

“It is the perfect strategy for this game,”
the Jester agreed.

Karl looked at the river, saw the
boy-Sergeant coming across. “Go,” said the Jester. They ran up,
tossed. Karl’s phoenix arose as an iron eagle with both wings
spread and raised in majestic, industrial dominance. The Jester’s
was an SS officer, holding up his arm in a Heil, Hitler. He brought
the arm down on the eagle, karate chopping it in two. Karl could
not tell if the soldier said “Hai” or “Heil.”

“Cool,” said the Sergeant, walking up. “Can
I play?” The Jester and Karl each handed him some pieces and cards
and they played three handed. The Sergeant always won which made
the Jester angry.

“You’re not playing fair,” he said. The
Sergeant would toss the pieces or spin the cards instead of running
up and back. They always landed in the exact center. His
fire-pieces might arise more quickly, killing the others as they
arose, before becoming fully formed. Also, they did not arise where
they landed, but might wait until the other pieces had arisen, then
appear behind them, quickly cutting off their head or running them
through.

“You’re supposed to let them really
fight.”

The Jester got a crafty look on his face,
and the next play, the Sergeant’s turned into a hulking, brutish
soldier, sleeves ripping from his arms, scarred, vicious face with
short hair standing straight up. He wore a patch that said “USMC”
on his left shoulder. He walked over to the other two pieces before
they formed and grabbed them by the throat. He held them both down
with one enormous hand, took a box from his pocket and forced the
contents down their throats, ramming his fist down each throat
while holding it. He tossed the box over his shoulder. It landed
burning between Karl and the Sergeant. The words “rat poison” were
visible on the cover before it disappeared. Karl looked back at the
fire. The Sergeant’s piece had become a video game ape, wearing a
loin cloth and beating has chest in a mechanical rhythm. He was
jumping up and down on an old couple, writhing in agony, dying. As
the ape came down on their stomachs with his knees, he would
briefly appear to be a crying child.

The Jester looked at the Sergeant, and
tilted his head.

“I win, Sergeant,” he said softly, almost
kindly.

“Funny. Let’s go Karl. We have some luggage
to find.”

Karl had forgotten, so they asked where the
Portal was, and the Jester shot a bottle rocket. He told them to
follow it to the silver spire.

“Was it hard, killing them?”

“Yeah, it was pretty intense emotionally,
and mentally. I don’t know who I am, Karl.”

“Typical Wildcard. Welcome to my world. I’ve
never known. It seems normal to me. I don’t question it. It’s sort
of obvious.”

“Not to me. I’ve always been pretty certain
of my identity. Until now.” He stopped and looked at Karl, almost
pleading. “What the fuck am I, Karl? I’m not a man, I’m not a boy.
What am I?”

Karl had no answer. They walked in
silence.

“Killing Wildcard,” Karl finally said, “Wow.
What happened in there?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s OK. I understand. Are we supposed to
stick together?”

“I think so. For now at least. Have I told
you my Shifting Alliances theory? Either high tactic or low
strategy. A little of both, I guess. I’d really like to discuss it
with the General.”

“Are you still loyal?”

“I killed them, didn’t I?”

“I suppose.” Karl was not at all certain.
The first Sergeant had probably done the killing. “What’s the
alliance thing?”

“You don’t get to pick your allies in here.
Not even for strategic reasons. I mean, occasionally, you do, but
usually, they seem implied by the situation, if you know what I
mean. Forced, like we were forced when I was trapped in the Portal.
If you fight a new alliance, it goes badly for you.”

“Sounds about right. What are we supposed to
do now?”

The Sergeant made a puttering noise with his
lips. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Let’s go find the box.” Karl was pretty
sure it was the wrong choice, but it was the only thing he could
think of.

“Not the Poet?”

That sounded more right. “How do we find
him?”

“Here’s the overall plan then. We locate the
Portal, determine a means of passage, then a means of motive power
through wildspace, then reconnoiter the Poet’s location.” He
laughed. “Won’t be easy, I imagine. The box will be simpler to
find, most likely.”

The silver spire was over the large hill
behind the Gatekeeper, closer than Karl remembered. It vaguely
resembled a cactus, thought it was a sculpture, not alive. There
were no trees and almost no grass in a wide, ragged circle around
it. Dead space. They climbed it, shook the stiff arms, leapt off,
kicked it. The Sergeant even ate one of the odd purple berries. He
got a ferocious stomachache and had explosive diarrhea in his baggy
shorts. He found a stream to wash them.

“Figure it out, yet?” The Sergeant strolled
back in wet shorts.

“Nope. You smell better, yet?”

“Yeah. A little.” It didn’t smelled like
feces, just as food had not tasted like food until a few days ago.
It just smelled bad. “Why didn’t we ask him what to do when we got
here?”

“Might have been a good idea. I doubt he
knew though. I think this is a ‘figure it out’ thing, not a ‘they
tell you what to do’ thing.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. What do we
do, then?”

They stayed for a long time, nothing
happened. They tried to ask Trident, but he was inert. They foraged
for food, ate, walked.

The Sergeant leaned
against the spire with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands,
thinking. He looked at his red Converse All-Stars. Different
colored socks: a black dress sock, and a white sport sock with two
black bands around it. He laughed. He was wearing a red tank top
that said PIMP
on it. Over that was a
light unbuttoned shirt with short sleeves, black with happy white
skeletons dancing all over it.

“Why are you dressed that way?”

“Not sure. There is something about being in
here. You need to be cool, hip in an electronic way to get the job
done. To be a master player. You have to have that kind of
attitude. If you are a young boy. I need to look like this.”

“Just a tactic, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe. Something like that. A natural
tactic.”

They sat there some more.

Finally, the Sergeant said, “I think we’re
supposed to go to sleep. I’m going to.”

It was about midnight, Karl guessed. “Good
idea.”

The Sergeant fell asleep quickly. Karl
bunched up his coat, used it as a pillow against the tree. He laid
there for a bit, then saw the Gatekeeper walking up with an axe on
his shoulder. Karl nudged the Sergeant. “I’m awake,” he said,
sounding quite alert. “He woke me up and I’ve been watching him.”
He sat up.

The Jester walked up to the spire and pulled
back his axe to swing. “Wait,” said Karl. “Don’t cut down the
spire.”

“Why ever not?”

“Why would you?”

“I chop it down every night at midnight.
It’s my job. It’s what I do. It’s what I am.”

“But you’re the Gatekeeper.”

“Yes, that also. Is this not a gate, in any
event?”

He pulled the axe back to swing and the
Sergeant grabbed the handle just below the blade. The Jester swung
his hands without an axe in them.

“Hey! What’s the idea? That hurt.”

“Wait.”

“Prefer not to. I need to get this done,
now.” He reached out. “Gimme my axe back.”

“No. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Karl asked.

“I got a pulse hit from Trident. He’s live
now. What is it, T?”

“I sensed a quantum anomaly when he was
preparing to swing. The axe and the gate are connected.”

“Why can’t I jump off now, Trident? I did
last time.”

“I do not know. I sense no activity.”

“Twone,” said Karl.

“We already solved that puzzle to get
in.”

“Now we solve it to get out, in a different
way. The spire and the axe are the same thing.”

“Yes,” said Trident. “They are not
distinguishable.”

“Then how can you say they’re different
things?”

“At a gross perceptual level, they are
different. At a quantum level, they’re identical.”

Karl grabbed the axe. “Hold the spire,
Sergeant.”

“Maybe it’s a good idea, Karl, but maybe
it’s stupid. It’s hard to say.”

“Yeah.” Karl pulled the axe back. “It is.”
He swung. “It certainly is.”

The spire was severed at a stroke and they
were in the Space Between.

LuvRay was sitting on a box, in the desert
alone. It was hot; the sun was fierce. This was not LuvRay’s
desert. This was the hot desert, deep desert. He was in the
Saraha.