Ace In The Hole wc-6 Page 8

  A knot of fear began to tighten in Jack's stomach.

  Jim Wright, speaker of the House and the chairman the convention had elected that afternoon, gaveled the convention to order. A senator from Wyoming stood up to move the repeal of 9(c). All the troops were already in line and there was no debate.

  Jack took a long, long drink; and the roll call began. For the next ten minutes, Peter Jennings, seconded by his people on the floor, spoke in serious tones about Gregg Hartmann's stunning defeat. Jack could hear people outside the room marching up and down. Twice someone knocked, and twice he ignored them.

  Then David Brinkley, his sardonic grin firmly in place, began to wonder aloud if he smelled a rat. He and Koppel and Jennings tossed this notion around while the lopsided numbers added up, then unanimously concluded that the whole showdown had been a sucker play, and that Barnett, Gore, et al had fallen for it.

  There was more pounding on the hotel door. "Logan?" Devaughn's voice. "Are you in there?"

  Jack said nothing.

  After the reporters' analysis leaked back to the convention, bedlam broke out on the floor. Mobs of delegates lurched back and forth like wood chips caught in a flood. Jack reached for his phone and called Emil Rodriguez. "Move the California question. Now."

  Hartmann's opponents were in total disarray. Their entire strategy had come unhinged.

  Hartmann won the California challenge in a walk. A roar of celebration began to come through the hotel room door. Jack opened Logan's door, put a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside, and stepped out into the hallway.

  "Jack!" Amy Sorenson, her chestnut hair flying, ran toward him through a crowd dizzy with celebration. "Were you in there? Did you and Logan come up with this?"

  Jack kissed her, not caring in the least if her husband was present. "Got any pizza left?" he asked. "I'm getting hungry."

  8:00 P.M.

  A knot of people at the main entrance to the Marriott reared back in alarm as the Turtle settled onto the sidewalk. Blaise drummed on the side of the shell with his heels as he slid off: Tachyon gave the shell a fond pat before he climbed down. "Thank you, Turtle, for a lovely afternoon. It's an elegant city when seen from above."

  "Any time, Tachy." The shell floated away. "Dr. Tachyon."

  The alien turned at that smooth, well-modulated voice with its strong Southern accent. "Reverend Barnett."

  They had never met, yet recognition was instantaneous. They stood on the steps of the Marriott, devouring one another's faces, searching for the key to the character of the other man. Leo Barnett was a young man of medium height, blond hair, blue eyes, a dimpled chin. It was a nice face, and for an instant the Takisian struggled to reconcile the hated image of his dreams with this soft-spoken man. Then he recalled the exquisite faces of his kith and kin-all of them murdering thugs-and the moment of dislocation passed.

  "Doctor, didn't anyone ever tell you that there are some things we don't do in the streets because it alarms the children and frightens the horses?"

  Humor laced the words and Tachyon, who had tensed for an attack, relaxed. "Reverend, I've been on Earth longer than you've been alive, and I don't believe I've ever heard that expression."

  A woman stepped out of the crowd surrounding Barnett. "It generally refers to sex, and you know all about that." Shoulder-length sable hair, cascading onto her breast, long sooty lashes fluttering on alabaster cheeks, lashes lifting to reveal eyes of a profound midnight blue…

  No, brown!

  Reality shifted like a cable car being wrenched off its track. Tach's breath seemed to be clogged somewhere between diaphragm and throat. He tottered, groping for Blaise's shoulder, and Leo Barnett leaped forward to support him on the other side.

  "Doctor, are you all right?"

  "I've seen a ghost," Tach murmured thickly. The faintness was passing, and he lifted his eyes to hers.

  "My campaign manager, Fleur van Renssaeler," said Barnett with a nervous glance to the woman.

  "I know," said Tachyon.

  "You're very quick, Doctor." Her opening words had been aggressive, now bitter sarcasm laced each syllable.

  "You bear your mother's face…" He quailed slightly under blazing anger in those brown eyes. "But her eyes were blue."

  "What an extraordinary memory you have."

  "There is not a detail of your mother's face that I have forgotten."

  "Am I supposed to be pleased by that?"

  "I hope so. I am inordinately pleased to see you. Every week for almost two years we played." He laughed gently. "I recall you were dreadfully fond of that horrid sticky candy corn. My pockets would be gummy for days afterward."

  `You never came to our house. My father wouldn't permit it.

  Tach felt his jaw sag. "But I mind-controlled the servants. Your mother wanted to see you so desperately-"

  "My mother was a damn slut. She abandoned my father and her children for you."

  "No, that's not true. Your father threw her out of the house."

  "Because she was whoring with you!" Fleur's hand lashed out, snapping his head around with the force of the blow. Tentatively he touched his burning cheek, started to advance on her. "No-"

  Barnett laid a hand on Tachyon's shoulder. "Doctor, this conversation is obviously upsetting both you and Miss van Renssaeler. I think we should move along."

  The minister held out his hand to Fleur. Her lips seemed slack, and somehow heavier. An aura of sex surrounded her. Barnett handed her into the taxi as if he were eager to release her.

  "Perhaps sometime we can talk again, Doctor. I confess I'm very curious about the religious beliefs of your world. " Leo paused with a hand on the taxi door. "Are you a Christian, Doctor?"

  "No."

  "We should talk."

  The entourage was whisked away, Tach staring blankly after the taxi containing Fleur.

  "What, by the Ideal, was that all about?" The Takisian phrase spoken in Blaise's heavily accented English added to Tachyon's sense of disorientation.

  Tach pressed steepled fingers to his lips. "Oh, ancestors." He wrapped his arm tightly about Blaise's shoulders. "1947."

  "No kidding? What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "Watch your language."

  They started into the hotel and Blaise asked, "K'ijdad, who is the old femme?"

  "She's not old… a little older than her mother when I lost her. And you've got to stop using French and Takisian in the same sentence. It drives me mad."

  "Tell me this story," the boy demanded.

  Tachyon's eyes flickered from the elevators to the bar. "I need a drink."

  The pianist was on duty tinkling out a jazzed-up version of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."

  "Brandy," the alien snapped to a waitress as he passed. "Beer." Blaise drooped under a gimlet stare from his grandsire. "Coke," he amended in a subdued tone.

  They sat in silence until the drinks were delivered, and Tachyon had a long swallow. "It was only a few months after the release of the virus. Blythe had contracted the wild card, and was brought to the hospital where I was working. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, and I think I loved her from the first moment I saw her." Blaise rolled his eyes. "Well, I did," said Tachyon defensively.

  "So what happened?"

  "Blythe's power enabled her to absorb minds. Archibald Holmes recruited her for an antifascist organization called the Four Aces. Jack was a member, and Earl Sanderson, and David Harstein. Blythe became the repository for the minds of Einstein, Oppenheimer, and many many others, mine included. Meanwhile, Jack and Earl and David were flitting around the word overthrowing dictatorships, capturing Nazis and the like."

  "Then in '48 they tried to resolve the China problem. David was the key to the negotiations because he possessed a powerful pheromone power. When you were with him he could get you to agree to anything. He had Mao and the Kuomintang kissing and swearing eternal friendship. Then he and the others left China, and naturally the whole thing collapsed."

  Tach r
aised a finger for another brandy. "There was growing suspicion toward the wild cards during this period. A lot like today. China gave them the excuse they needed. They went after the Four Aces, accusing them of being communists. But it was just an excuse. Their real sin was that they were different-more than human. We were all called before the House Un-American Activities Committee. They wanted the names of all the aces I had treated. I refused, but then-" Tachyon took a long swallow of brandy. Somehow this story never got any easier.

  "Go on," pushed Blaise, his dark eyes bright with excitement.

  In a voice drained of all emotion, Tachyon resumed. "Jack had become a so-called `friendly witness.' He told the committee that Blythe had absorbed my mind, my memories."

  "They put her on the stand and began to grill her. Because of the stress of juggling so many minds Blythe was… fragile. She was about to reveal the other aces. I could not allow that to happen. I controlled her, and so broke her mind. She became hopelessly insane, and her husband had her committed. She died in a sanatorium in 1954."

  "Who was the husband?"

  "A congressman from New York. There were also three children. Henry Jr. Brandon and Fleur. I lost track of them during the years I was roaming Europe."

  "Which is when you met George."

  "Yes."

  "This is so confusing."

  "You should have tried living it."

  "So this is the ancient history you won't discuss whenever I ask you why you and Jack fight' so much."

  "Yes. For years I blamed Jack for Blythe's destruction. Then I realized that I was the one who destroyed her. Jack was just one of a long line of contributing factors: my family for developing the virus in the first place, Archibald Holmes for i recruiting her, her husband for rejecting her, Jack for being weak, and humans for being venal."

  Blaise sucked noisily through his straw, dragging up the last of the Coke. "Boy, this is really heavy, you know?"

  "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

  "Fleur?" A shrug. "Yeah, I guess."

  "I have to see her, Blaise. Explain, set the past straight. Have her forgive me."

  "Why should you care?"

  "Burning Sky, look at the time! I was supposed to meet the Texas delegation five minutes ago. Go buy some dinner, put it on the room, and stay out of trouble! I've got to change."

  The phone was ringing as he entered the room. Snatching it up, Tachyon heard the hiss of long distance. An operator's cool, bored tone asked, "Will you accept a collect call from Mr. Thomas Downs?"

  For an instant, disbelief at the journalist's brass held him silent, and Tach could hear faint and far away Digger babbling frantically. "Tachy, you gotta listen-"

  "Sir, this call has not yet been accepted." Admonishment from the frigid operator.

  "Tachy, listen! Something terr-"

  "Sir!"

  "… help me…"

  "Sir, will you accept the charges?"

  "… in big trouble!" Digger's voice soared into the soprano range.

  "No!" Tachyon slammed down the phone so hard that it gave a ring of protest. He was halfway out of his shirt when it rang again.

  "Collect call-"

  "NO!"

  It rang seven more times. After the third time Tach stopped answering. The shrill ringing was a drill biting into his head. He dressed quickly in his usual elaborate finery. Pale rose and lavender with silver lace. The phone was still ringing as he stepped into the hall. For a moment he hesitated. Help me. Help him how? Tach gave his head an emphatic shake, and pulled the door shut. Too often Digger had embroiled him in the sleazy journalists sleazy little problems. Not this time.

  I have enough problems of my own.

  Spector hadn't been to the store for a year and a half, not since the Wild Card Day when the Astronomer went out in a blaze of glory. With a little help from hire, of course. The suit he'd bought then didn't last out the day, but then a lot of things hadn't made it through that day. The old guy who ran the place had seemed okay to him. What the hell, might as well throw hire some more business. He couldn't stay at a swank hotel and not have some decent clothes. He'd stand out like a joker at a fashion show.

  He knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped in. Before, the store had been old, dim, and dusty-like the old man who ran it. Now the place had been repainted and new, brighter lighting had been put in. The room even smelled new.

  As Spector turned to leave, a voice called out to him, "Hey, come on in, sir. If ou're looking for fine clothing at great prices, you've come to' the right place. Just tell me-I'm Bob-name's on the sign outside-what you want and I'll fix you up in no time."

  Spector looked Bob over. He was dressed well enough, although the clothes didn't disguise the fact that he was creeping into middle age, but he had a hustler's eyes and smile. Spector just wanted to buy some clothes and get out. "I'll need two suits, one dark gray and one light gray. Thirty-eight long. Not too expensive."

  Bob stroked his chin and made a face. "I don't think gray is really your color. Something in a tan maybe. Come on over here." He grabbed Spector by the elbow and guided him over to one of the mirrors. "Wait just a second."

  Spector looked around the store. He didn't see anyone else. It was just Bob and him.

  Bob trotted back over, holding a tan coat. He turned Spector toward the mirror and held the coat up in front of him. "What do you think? Great, huh. And a steal at four-hundredand-fifty dollars. Plus alterations, of course."

  "I want two suits. Just like I said. One light gray. One dark gray. "

  Bob sighed. "Look around outside. You know how many people are wearing gray suits? If you want to stand out, make an impression, you have to dress for it. Trust me."

  Spector wasn't listening. He was breathing evenly and concentrating. Remembering the pain. The agony of his own death.

  "You okay, mister?"

  Spector turned to face Bob and stared into the man's eyes. They linked. Bob couldn't look away, and Spector didn't want to. The memory of his death blotted out everything else. And he gave it to the man in front of him. His insides twisted and burned. Skin ruptured and sloughed off. Muscles tore and bones snapped. Spector's death lived again in his mind. And Bob felt it, too. Spector shuddered as he recalled his heart bursting. Bob gasped. His legs went rubbery and he fell over. Dead. Just as Spector had been before Tachyon brought him back to life.

  Spector glanced around. They were still alone. He grabbed Bob under the armpits and dragged him into one of the dressing booths, then walked back to the rack and picked out two gray suits. One dark and one light.

  He wrapped them in plastic and headed for the street. "The customers always right, Bob. First rule of business."

  9:00 P.M.

  "The problem with Jackson on the ticket is that it could cost us the election. Not to sound bigoted or nothin'"

  "But you do," interrupted Tachyon. A frown of jovian proportions creased Bruce Jenkins's forehead. Since the only hair remaining to the man was a tiny ruff over each big red ear it looked as if his entire head was buckling like earthquaketorn Earth. "Not to suggest that you are," Tachyon hastened to add, realizing that Takisian tactlessness might not be in place at a political convention. "But why are we discussing thirdplace runners, no matter how interesting or charismatic? The real issue is Senator Hartmann and Leo Barnett."

  "Reverend."

  "Eh?"

  "Reverend Barnett. You give Hartmann his title. Leo's deserving of his, too."

  "Are we finally getting down to business, Mr. Jenkins?"

  "Yeah. Texas went solidly for the Reverend."

  "And you intend to keep it that way?"

  "If I can. Now this ain't to say that Gregg Hartmann isn't a good man. He is, that's why I think a Barnett/Hartmann ticket might have some real strengths."

  "Impossible!"

  "Now, don't be so hasty. Politics is a lot like horse trading, Doctor. You can't be too rigid."

  "Mr. Jenkins, if the issue is the triumph of the Democratic ticket in N
ovember, then a ticket headed by Leo Barnett would be a disaster. There are still enough people who would oppose a religious figure running this country. Besides, Barnett is a one-note candidate."

  "No, sir, there you're wrong. You see him as a one-note candidate because you're obsessed with wild cards, but Leo speaks for a lot of simple Americans who are worried about the moral decay of this country."

  They stepped out of the Bello Mondo restaurant. To their left came the clatter of cutlery on china as the journalists, hangers-on, and less wealthy delegates dined in the Marriott's coffee shop. Tachyon frowned up at the banners stretched across the dizzying expanse of the lobby atrium.

  Heard the sharp tick of high heels. jumped and whirled as he felt cold fingers nuzzle up beneath his hair, touching the nape of his neck. Sara winced at the pressure of his hand around her fingers. Bright color flamed in each cheek, but it looked angry against the unnatural white of her skin.

  "I came for a statement, and to see if I could help." Tachyon shook his head. "What?"

  She reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. "Chrysalis."

  "What about her?"

  "She's dead." The flat tone snapped him around as surely as Fleur's slap. He took two quick steps, groping for support. His hand closed on the sharp point of Sara's shoulder. "Dead!"

  "You mean you didn't know?"

  "No… I… I've been busy. All day."

  "Yeah." Her tone was bitter; then abruptly she dropped a gentle sympathetic mask over her pale features. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."

  Jenkins tiptoed over. "Doctor, it seems you've had bad news. We'll talk another time."

  Sara gripped Tachyon's arm with both hands and tugged him toward the elevators. "This has been a shock. You're very pale.! Maybe you should lie down."

  "I need a drink."

  Sara hung on grimly to his arm. "Don't you have something in your room?"

  He frowned at her. "Yes."

  "Let's… let's go there." Pale tongue running briefly across those too thin lips. "I… I need to talk to you." Physical vertigo added to his emotional vertigo as the elevator shot upward. "Chrysalis." He shook his head. "Tell me."