George Martin - Aces High

Then the holocube turned violet, and his smile died. He made a low gurgly sound deep in the back of his throat. The sophisticated sensors in his satellites stripped away the screens that cloaked the starship from human instrumentation and displayed its image within the ominous violet of the cube. It revolved slowly, etched in lines of red and white light like some terrible construct of fire and ice. The readouts flashed below the image: dimensions, tachyon output, course. But everything Jube needed to know was written on the lines of the ship: written in every twisted spire, proclaimed by every fanciful excrescence, trumpeted by every baroque whorl and projection, shouted in that panoply of unnecessary lights. It looked like the results of a high-speed collision between a Christmas ornament and a prickly pear. Only the Takisians had such rococo aesthetics.

Jube lurched to his feet. Takisians! Had Dr. Tachyon summoned them? He found that hard to believe, after all the years the doctor had spent in exile. What did it mean? Had Takis been monitoring Earth all this time, observing the wild card experiment even as the Network had? If so, why had Jhubben found no trace of them until now, and how had they managed to conceal themselves from Ekkedme? Would they destroy the Swarm Mother? Could they destroy the Mother? The Opportunity was roughly the size of Manhattan island, and carried tens of thousands of specialists representing countless species, cultures, castes, and vocations-merchants and pleasurers, scientists and priests, technicians, artists, warriors, envoys. The Takisian craft was a tiny thing; it couldn't possibly hold more than fifty sentients, perhaps only half that number. Unless Takisian military technology had progressed astronomically in the last forty years, what could that little thing hope to do, alone, against the devourer of worlds? And would the Takisians even care about the lives of their experimental animals?

As Jhubben stared at the outlines of the ship with mounting rage and confusion, his phone rang.

For an instant he thought insanely that somehow the Takisians had found him out, that they knew he was looking at them and had rung him up to castigate him. But that was ridiculous. He slammed a thumb into the console, and the holocube went dark as Jube thumped into the living room. He had to detour around the tortured geometries of the half-built tachyon transmitter that dominated the center of the room like isome massive piece of avant-garde sculpture. If the thing didn't work when he powered it up, Jube planned to title it 'Joker Lust' and sell it to some gallery in Soho. Even halfassembled, its angles were curiously deceptive, and he was always bumping into it. This time he dodged around it neatly and took the phone from Mickey's hand. "Hello," he said, trying to sound his normal jovial self.

"Juba], this is Chrysalis." It was her voice, but he had never heard her sound quite like this. She had never called him at home before, either.

"What's wrong?" he asked her. He'd asked her to procure another batch of microchips last week, and the edge in her voice made him afraid her agent had been apprehended.

"Jay Ackroyd just phoned. He hasn't been able to report until now. He found out a few things about the people who hired Darlingfoot."

"But that's good. Has he located the bowling ball?"

"No. And it's not as good as you think. I know this sounds insane, but Jay says these people were convinced that body was extraterrestrial in origin. It appears they hoped to use the corpse in some kind of disgusting ritual, to gain power over that alien monster out there."

"The Swarm Mother," Jube said in astonishment. "Yes," Chrysalis said crisply. "Jay says they're tied in somehow. He thinks they worship that thing. Look, we shouldn't be talking about this over the phone."

"Why not?" Jube asked.

"Because these people are dangerous," Chrysalis said. "Jay is coming to the Palace tonight to give me a full report. Be there. I'm folding my cards on this one, Jubal. You can deal with Jay directly from now on. But if you'd like, I'll ask Fortunato to drop by. I think he'd be interested in what Jay has turned up."

"Fortunato!" Jube was horrified. He knew Fortunato mostly by reputation. The tall pimp with the almond-shaped eyes and bulging forehead was a familiar sight at the Crystal Palace, but Jube had always made it a point to avoid him. Telepaths made him nervous. Dr. Tachyon never went into a mind without good reason, but Fortunato was another matter. Who knows how and why he might use his powers, or what he might do if he found out what Jube the Walrus really was?

"No," he said hurriedly, "no, absolutely not. This has nothing to do with Fortunato!"

"He knows more about these Masons than anyone else in the city," Chrysalis said. She sighed. "Well, you're paying for this funeral, so I suppose you get to pick the casket. I won't say a word. We'll talk after closing."

"After closing," Jube repeated. She hung up before he could think to ask her what she had meant about Masons. Jube knew about the Masons, of course. He'd done a study of human fraternal organizations a decade ago, comparing the Shriners, Knights of Columbus, Odd Fellows, and Freemasons with each other and with the bonding-brotherhoods of the Thdentien moons. Reginald was a Mason, Jube seemed to recall, and Denton had tried to join the Elks, but they'd turned him down because of his antlers. What did the Masons have to do with anything?

That day Jube was too uneasy to joke. Between Swarm Mothers, Takisian warships, and Masons, he hardly knew who to be afraid of. Even if the cavalry did come charging over the hill, Jube thought, would they be able to recognize the Indians? He glanced up at the sky and shook his head. When he locked up for the night he made his deliveries to the Funhouse and the Chaos Club, then decided to cut short his swing through Jokertown and head over to the Crystal Palace as soon as possible. But first he had to make one final stop, at the precinct house.

The desk sergeant took a Daily News and flipped to the sports page, while Jube left a Times and. a Jokertown Cry for Captain Black. He was turning to leave when the plainclothesman saw him. "Hey, fat boy," the man called out. "You got an Informer?" He had been slouching on the bench along the tiled wall, almost as if he'd been waiting for someone. Jube knew him by sight: a scruffy, nondescript sort with an unpleasant smile. He'd never bothered to tell Jube his name, but he did show up at the newsstand once in a while to help himself to a tabloid. Sometimes he even paid.

But not tonight. "Thanks," he said, as he accepted the copy of the National Informer that Jube offered him. DID TAKISIANS INVENT HERPES? the banner screamed. It gave Jube a bad turn. Underneath, another story asked if Sean was about to jilt Madonna for Peregrine. The plainclothesman didn't even glance at the headlines. He was staring at Jube oddly.

The corner of his mouth twitched in a quirky little smile, "You're just an ugly joker-boy, aren't you?" the cop asked. Jube gave an ingratiating, tusky grin. "What, me ugly? Hell, I got bigger tits than Miss October!"

"I've wasted enough time without listening to your asshole jokes," the plainclothesman snapped. "But what did I expect? You're not too bright, are you?"

Bright enough to fool your kind for thirty-four years, Jube thought, but he didn't say it. "Well, you know how many jokers it takes to turn on a light bulb," he said.

"Haul your greasy joker ass out of here," the man said. Jube waddled to the door. At the top of the stairs, he turned back and yelled, "That paper's on me!" before taking off for the Crystal Palace.

He was early tonight, and the Palace was still crowded. Jube took a stool all the way at the end of the bar, where he could put his back right up against the wall and see the whole room. It was Sascha's night off, and Lupo was tending bar. "What'll it be, Walrus?" he asked, long red tongue lolling from one corner of his mouth.