George Martin - Aces Abroad

"Bonjour."

The desk clerk's eyes widened in dawning wonder as he recognized the extravagant figure before him. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties with sleek seal-brown hair and deep blue eyes.

"You have a woman working here. Danelle Moncey. It is vital that I speak with her."

"Moncey? No, Monsieur Tachyon. There is no one by-"

"Damn! She married. I forgot that. She's a maid, midfifties, black eyes, gray hair." His heart was thundering, setting up an answering pounding in his temples. The young man looked nervously down at Tachyon's hands, which had closed urgently about his lapels, pulling him half over the counter. Releasing the clerk, Tachyon rubbed his fingertips. "Forgive me. As you can see, this is very important… very important to me."

"I'm sorry, but there is no Danelle working here."

"She's a Communist," Tach added in desperation.

The man shook his head, but the pert blond behind the exchange counter suddenly said, "Ah, no, Francois. You know, Danelle."

"Then she is here?"

"Oh, mais oui. She is on the third floor-"

"Will you get her for me?" Tachyon gave the girl his best come-hither smile.

"Monsieur, she is working," protested the desk clerk. " I only require a moment of her time."

"Monsieur, I cannot have a cleaning woman in the lobby of the Intercontinental." It was almost a wail.

"Blood's end! Then I'll go to her."

Danelle was bundling sheets into a hamper. Gasped when she saw him, tried to bull past him using her cleaning cart as a battering ram. He danced aside and caught her by the wrist.

"We must talk." He was grinning like a fool. "I'm working."

"Take the day off."

"I'll lose my job."

"You're not going to need this job any longer."

"Oh, why not?"

A man and his wife stepped out of their room and stared curiously at the couple.

"This won't do."

She eyed him, checked her cheap wristwatch. "It's almost my break. I'll meet you at the Cafe Morens just down from the hotel on the Rue du Juillet. Buy me some cigarettes and my usual."

"Which is?"

"They'll know. I always take my break there."

He took her face between his hands and kissed her. Smiled at her confused expression.

"What has happened with you?"

"I'll tell you at the cafe."

As he hurried back through the lobby he saw the desk clerk just hanging up the phone in one of the public booths. The young blond woman waved and called, "Did you find her?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you very much."

Tachyon fidgeted at one of the tiny tables that had been squeezed out front of the cafe. The street was so narrow that the parked cars had two wheels cocked up on the sidewalks.

Dani arrived and lit a Gauloise. "So what is this all about?"

"You lied to me." He shook a finger coyly under her nose. "Our daughter is not dead. At Versailles… that was not a wild card, it was my blood kin. I don't blame you for wanting to hurt me, but let me make it up to you. I'll get you both back to America."

A small car was gunning down the street. As it swept past, the chatter of automatic weapon fire echoed off the gray stone buildings. Danelle jerked in the chair. Tachyon caught her, flung them both down behind one of the parked cars. A white-hot poker burned through his thigh, and his elbow hit the sidewalk with a jarring crack. He lay frozen, cheek pressed to the pavement, something warm running over his hand. His leg had gone numb.

Danelle's breath was rattling in her throat. Tachyon took her mind. Gisele appeared. Reflected a million times over in a million different memories. Gisele. A brilliant firefly presence.

Desperately he reached after her, but she was receding, a lost and elusive magic among the darkening pathways of her dying mother's mind.

Danelle died. Gisele died.

But had left a part of herself. A son. Tach clung to her, violating every rule of advanced mentatics by holding to a dying mind. Panic seized him, and he fled back from that terrifying boundary.

In the physical world the air was filled with the undulating wail of sirens. Oh, ancestors, what to do? Be found here with a murdered hotel maid? Ludicrous. There would be questions to be answered. They would learn of his grandchild. And if wild cards were a national treasure, how much more a treasure was a part-blood Takisian?

The pain was beginning. Tachyon experimentally moved the leg and found that the bullet had missed the bone. The effort had popped sweat and filled the back of his throat with bile. How could he possibly reach the Ritz? He tightened his jaw. Because he was a prince of the house Ilkazam. It's only two blocks, he thought encouragingly.

He laid Danelle gently aside, folded her hands on her bosom, kissed her forehead. Mother of my child. Later he would mourn her properly. But first came vengeance.

The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. There wasn't much blood. Yet. As he walked it began to pump. Camouflage, something to hide the wound just long enough to get past the desk and up to his room. He checked in parked cars. A folded newspaper. And the window was open. Not perfect, but good enough. Now he just had to find enough control not to limp those few steps from the front door to the elevator.

Piece of cake, as Mark would say. Training was everything. And blood. Blood would always tell.

He had taken a stab at sleeping, but it had been useless. Finally at six Jack Braun kicked aside the entangling bed clothes, stripped off sweat-soaked pajamas, dressed, and went in search of food.

Five months of hunched shoulders and nervous backward glances. Five months in which he had never spoken. Refused to grant him even eye contact. Had the hope of rehabilitation really been worth this amount of hell?

The Swarm invasion was to blame. It had pulled him back, out of the womb of real estate and California evenings and poolside sex. Here was a real crisis. No ace, no matter how tainted, would be unwelcome. And he'd done good, stomping all over monsters in Kentucky and Texas. And he'd discovered something interesting. Most of the new young aces didn't know who the hell he was. A few, Hiram Worchester, the Turtle, had known and it had mattered. But it was bearable. So maybe there was a way to come back. To be a hero again.

Hartmann had announced the world tour.

Jack had always admired Hartmann. Admired the way he'd led the fight to repeal certain parts of the Exotic Powers Control Act. He'd called the senator and offered to foot part of the bill. Money was always welcome to a politician, even if it wasn't being used to finance a campaign. Jack found himself on the plane.

And most of it hadn't been bad. There'd been plenty of action with women-most notably with Fantasy. They had lain in bed one night in Italy, and she'd told him with vicious wit about Tachyon's impotency. And he'd laughed, too loud and too long. Trying to diminish Tachyon. Trying to make him less of a threat.

Over the years he'd absorbed a bit about Takisian culture from the interviews he'd read. Vengeance was definitely part of the code. So he'd watched his back and waited for Tachyon to act. And nothing had happened.

The strain was killing him. And then had come last night.

He smeared butter on the last roll in the bread basket, washed down the hard crusted bite with a sip of the unbelievably strong French coffee. He sure wished these Frenchies had a concept of a real breakfast. He could order an American breakfast of course, but the cost was as unbelievable as the coffee. This basket of dry bread and coffee was costing him ten dollars. Add in some eggs and bacon, and the cost soared to near thirty dollars. For breakfast!

Suddenly the absurdity of the thought struck him. He was a rich man, not a Depression farm boy from North Dakota. His contribution to this tour had been big enough to buy him a piece of the big 747, or at least the jet fuel to fly it-