George Martin: Aces Abroad

The mind snare snapped down. A mental scream of alarm from the boy. Desperate struggle, panting resignation. The rider had become the ridden.

Tachyon joined Blaise's power to his. It was like a bar of white-hot light. Carefully he split it into strands. Each tendril snapped out like a burning whip. Settled on his captors. They became frozen statues.

He was gasping with effort, sweat bursting from his forehead, running in rivulets into his eyes. He set them marching, a regiment of zombies. As Andrieux stepped from his side, Tachyon forced his hand to move, to close about the Beretta, to pull it from his slave's limp grasp.

Braun was leaping about, gesticulating, summoning help with great arm sweeps.

Hurry! Hurry!

He had to hold them. All of them. If he failed… Blaise was struggling again. It was like being kicked over and over again in the gut. One thread snapped. To Claude Bonnell. With a cry Tachyon dropped the control, ran for the gate. Behind him there was the vicious snarl of an Uzi. Apparently one of his captives had tried to run and been cut down by the French security forces. Perhaps it had been Andrieux. More gunfire, punctuating screams. A torrent of people swept past, almost knocking him from his feet. He tightened his grip on the Beretta, pumped harder. Slid around the corner just as the dazed driver reached for the key. A blow from Tachyon's mind, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel, and the blare of the horn was added to the pandemonium.

Bonnell struggled from the car, gripping Blaise by the wrist. He went lurching and stumbling for a narrow, deserted side street.

Tach flew after them, caught Blaise by his free hand, and wrenched him free.

Sharp teeth bit deep into his wrist. Tachyon silenced the boy with a crushing imperative. Supported the sleeping child with one arm'. He and Bonnell regarded one another over the limp figure.

"Bravo, Doctor. You outfoxed me. But what a media event my trial will be."

"I'm afraid not."

"Eh?"

"I require a body. One infected with the wild card. Then the Surete will have their mysterious mentat ace and will look no further."

"You can't be serious! You can't mean to kill me in cold blood." He read the answer in Tachyon's implacable lilac gaze. Bonnell tottered back, came up short against a wall, moistened his lips. "I treated you fairly, kindly. You took no hurt from me."

"But others have not fared so well. You shouldn't have sent Blaise to me. He was quick to tell me of your other triumphs. An innocent banker, controlled by Blaise, sent into his bank carrying his own death. That bomb blast killed seventeen. Clearly a triumph."

Bonnell's face shifted, took on the aspect of Thomas Tudbury, the Great and Powerful Turtle. "Please, I beg you. At least grant me the opportunity for a trial."

"No," The features shifted again-Mark Meadows, Captain Trips blinked confusedly at the gun. "I think the outcome is fairly predictable." Danelle, but as she had been all those long years ago. "I merely hasten your execution."

A final transformation. Shoulder-length sable hair cascading over the shoulders, long sooty lashes brushing at her cheeks, lifting to reveal eyes of a profound midnight blue. Blythe.

"Tachy, please."

"I'm sorry, but you're dead." And Tach shot him.

"Ah, Doctor Tachyon." Franchot de Valmy rose from his desk, hand outstretched. "France owes you a great debt of gratitude. How can we ever repay you?"

"By issuing me a passport and visa."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. You of course-"

"Not for me. For Blaise Jeannot Andrieux."

De Valmy fiddled with a pen. "Why not merely apply?"

"Because Francois Andrieux is currently in custody. Checks will be run, and I can't allow that."

"Aren't you being a bit forthright with me?"

"Not at all. I know what an expert you are on falsified documents." The Frenchman froze, then shifted slowly to the back of his chair. " I know you're not an ace, Monsieur de Valmy. I wonder, how would the French public react to news of such a cheat? It would cost you the election."

De Valmy forced past stiff lips, "I am a very capable public servant. I can make a difference for France."

"Yes, but none of that is half so alluring as a wild card."

"What you're asking is impossible. What if it's traced to me? What if-" Tachyon reached for the phone. "What are you doing?"

"Calling the press. I too can arrange press conferences at a moment's notice. One of the privileges of fame."

"You'll get your documents."

"Thank you."

"I'll find out why you're doing this."

Tachyon paused at the door, glanced back. "Then we'll each have a secret on the other, won't we?"

The big plane was darkened for the late-night hop to London. The first-class section was deserted save for Tach, Jack, and Blaise, sleeping soundly in his grandfather's arms.

There was something about the little tableau that warned everyone to stay well away.

"How long are you gonna keep him under?" The single reading light pulled fire from the twin red heads.

"Until we reach London."

"Will he ever forgive you?"

"He won't know"

"About Bonnell maybe, but the rest he'll remember. You betrayed him."

"Yes." It was scarcely audible over the rumble of the engines. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I forgive you." Their eyes met.

The human reached down, softly pushed back a lock of silky hair from the child's forehead. "Then I guess maybe there's hope for you too."

Michael Cassutt

The month of April brought little in the way of relief to Muscovites staggered by an unusually cold winter. Following a brief flurry of southern breezes, which sent boys into the newly green football fields and encouraged pretty girls to discard their overcoats, the skies had darkened again, and a dreary, uninspired rain had begun to fall. To Polyakov the scene was autumnal and therefore entirely, appropriate. His masters, bending in the new breeze from the Kremlin, had decreed that this would be Polyakov's last Moscow spring. The younger, less-tainted Yurchenko would move up, and Polyakov would retire to a dacha far from Moscow.

Just as well, Polyakov thought, since scientists were saying that weather patterns had changed because of the Siberian airbursts. There might never be a decent Moscow spring again.

Nevertheless, even in its autumn clothes Moscow had the ability to inspire him: From this window he could see the cluster of trees where the Moscow River skirted Gorky Park, and beyond that, looking appropriately medieval in the mist, were the domes of St. Basil's and the Kremlin. In Polyakov's mind age equalled power, but then he was old.

"You wanted to see me?" The voice interrupted his musings. A young major in the uniform of the Chief Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff-uncommonly known as the GRU-had entered. He was perhaps thirty-five, a bit old to still hold the rank of major, Polyakov thought, especially with the Hero of the Soviet Union medal. With his classic White Russian features and sandy hair, the man looked like one of those unlikely officers whose pictures appeared on the cover of Red Star every day.

"Molniya." Polyakov elected to use the young officer's code name rather than Christian name and patronymic. Initial formality was one of the interrogator's tricks. He held out his hand. The major hesitated, then shook it. Polyakov was pleased to note that Molniya wore black rubber gloves. So far his information was correct. "Let's sit down."

They faced each other across the polished wood of the conference table. Someone had thoughtfully provided water, which Polyakov indicated. "You have a very pleasant conference room here."