George Martin - Ace In The Hole

For just a moment, he wondered if Puppetman hadn't fanned the embers. The thought cooled hire. He grimaced. "I need you. You can pretend to be just a correspondent, but everyone knows better. You're a very, very visible supporter," he told Tachyon. "Everyone is extremely aware of your help with my campaign and our stand on the wild card issues. How does it look to the rest of the convention if the good doctor is obviously more concerned about getting laid than with making sure his candidate is nominated? Priorities, Doctor. Priorities."

Tachyon took a deep breath in through his nose, lifting his chin. "I don't need to be lectured like some errant child. Not by you, Senator, and especially not after I've spent the entire morning working for you. I find your accusations extremely distasteful."

"How distasteful will it be if Barnett is the next president, Doctor? He may pretend to be compassionate, but we all know what will happen. Do you think you'll still have funding for your clinic? Is what will happen to the jokers then worth a few minutes of grunting passion between a woman's legs?"

"Senator-" Tachyon uttered in outrage.

Gregg laughed, and the sound had a manic, cutting edge. He was sweating, his Brooks Brothers shirt ringed under the arms. "Doctor, I'm sorry. I apologize for offending you. I'm being blunt because I'm concerned. For me, yes, but also for the jokers. If we lose here, everyone affected by the wild card loses too. You understand that, I know."

Tachyon's lips were a thin, bloodless line. The angry flush lurked on his high cheekbones. "I understand better than anyone. Senator. It would do you good to remember that."

He spun on his toes in a graceful ballet turn and strode quickly to the door. Gregg thought that he'd stop and say more, but Tachyon simply walked out, nodding to Billy Ray stationed outside.

"Not even a fucking exit line," someone said in Gregg's voice.

Gregg wasn't sure who it was that spoke.

A scuffle had broken out between a member of the New York delegation and an old woman from Florida. The two women had gone from shoves to the teeth-bared and hands in-claws stage. Hiram, blood suffusing his face, eyes almost popping with fury, flung chairs aside and rolled toward them. At the tiered wedding-cake podium Jim Wright was banging desperately and ineffectually. He gaped as the head broke clean off the gavel, and went sailing away into the crowd.

Tachyon, end-running through the milling throng, saw Hiram clench his fist, then an indescribable expression washed across the ace's face, leaving his expression as blank as a beach after a retreating wave. The plump manicured hand fell open and hung limply at his side.

The old bat was wearing a Barnett button and a large wooden cross. For an instant the Takisian hesitated; then, seeing the sharp toe of the Florida delegate's shoe lifting for a kick, he threw caution to the wind, and mind-controlled the both of them.

The press arrived. Security arrived. Fleur arrived.

"How dare you! Let her go!" Fleur dropped her arm protectively over the Barnett delegate's shoulder.

Tach noted that Hiram had a grip on the New York madam. He bowed jerkily. "With pleasure, just don't let her hit me."

"Madam, I make it a point never to pollute ladies of your age and situation with my precious alien fluids. Or my precious alien time."

"Bastard!" Fleur swept the sobbing woman away.

Hiram drew a hand across his brow. "Not tactful, Tachy."

"I'm not feeling very tactful. This is a disaster."

"This overcrowding makes fights inevitable," said Hiram. They settled into some empty chairs. Even Tach's knees were practically at his chin, so closely packed were the chairs. With a furtive glance for security or cameras the Takisian unlimbered his flask. Hiram gulped down an enormous swallow of brandy, choked, and suddenly Tach was shivering in distress as tears started rolling down Worchester's fat cheeks to mat in the heavy black beard. Sobs shook the massive body. Tachyon threw his arms around Hiram, patting, rocking, soothing. A string of nonsense words, endearments and reassurances poured from his lips. His own voice was jumping.

The emotional storm passed, and Tach offered his handkerchief. Hiram touched his brow, lips with tentative fingers. "Sorry. Sorry."

"It is quite all right. We are all under such strain."

"Tachyon, he has to win!"

The alien glanced from the wild, staring eyes to Hiram's hands closed vise-like around Tach's arms. The human's knuckles were turning white from the pressure. Tachyon lightly touched one hand, and said very softly and very gently. "Hiram, please, you're hurting me."

Worchester released him like a sprung trap. "Sorry. Sorry. Tachyon, we have to do whatever it takes, don't we? This is too important to leave to chance… to the good will of others. This is one time when the end may justify any means. Yes?"

Eyes closed Tachyon remembered Syria. Jokers being stoned to death in the streets before the bored or avid eyes of the nat passersby. South Africa. A time, not so very long ago, when it wasn't considered a crime to rape a joker woman just a lapse in taste.

"Yes, Hiram. Maybe you're right."

Patting the restaurateur absently on the shoulder Tach went in search of Charles Devaughn. What he was considering.., no, committed to doing… was insane. Certainly unfair. But when had a Takisian ever been concerned with fair play? No sense approaching committed Barnett delegates. That would only arouse suspicion, and the affects might not last. But the uncommitteds… if they had a change of heart after some fervent politicking from Devaughn and the ohso-persuasive and the oh-so-charismatic Dr. Tachyon… And Michael Dukakis? He could afford to lose a few. His only hope now was to be selected as the vice-presidential candidate…

It just seemed to sail down out of nowhere and into her hand. She barely had to move or will and she was holding it. She walked down Harris studying it: a plastic J. J. Flash Flying Ace glider, with holes carefully burned through its body and wings with a hot wire or rod. The face had been pen-blacked to oblivion with careful malice.

A couple of little black kids were wandering past in the other direction, staring at all the funny people. "What's you got there, lady?" asked the one in the Run DMC T-shirt.

She looked at the thing in her hand without comprehension. "A fucking Flying joker," she said.

The room wasn't as nice as the one he'd had at the Marriott. There were old wooden blinds instead of curtains; the bedsprings creaked, and the pastel paint was peeling around the baseboards. The motel was forty-five minutes from downtown and he'd had to slip the desk clerk a fifty to get the room. Still, Spector felt much more comfortable here. There was an all-night liquor store down the block and a burger place across the street. He was finishing up a greasy doublemeatdoublecheese and trying to come up with some kind of believable lies to tell Tony. He still had his Marriott room key, so getting into the hotel would be no trouble.

They'd talk about old times mostly. At least, that was what he hoped. His life before drawing the black queen was a hopeless blur. He didn't think about his past much, and considered the future only slightly more. Mostly he thought about death. Not because he liked it, but it was hard not to. Death put everything else into insignificant perspective. If all the politicians and lawyers and corporate hotshots understood the reaper the way he did, they'd never bother to get out of bed in the morning.

Spector picked up the phone, an old beige rotary model, and dialed the Marriott. After about twenty rings there was an answer. "Marriott Marquis." The voice was curt and whiny.