Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  “If you think it’s a zoo out there, you should see what’s going on inside.” Tony slapped Spector on the shoulder. There was real warmth in the gesture, the kind Spector hadn’t been exposed to in years. “What’s your room number?”

  Spector held up his key card. “1031.”

  “1031. Got it. I want to have dinner while you’re down here. We’ve got plenty to go over.” Tony shrugged. “I don’t even know what you’ve been doing since high school.”

  “Fine. I’ve got plenty of time to kill while I’m down here,” Spector said. The elevator pinged behind them. Tony backed away and waved. “See you later.” Spector tried to sound like he didn’t dread the idea. This was turning out to be weirder than Freakers on New Year’s Eve.

  Hiram was hosting a reception in his suite at the Marriott. Gregg was supposed to put in an appearance, so the rooms were packed with New York delegates and their families. Most of the suites Tachyon had entered stank of cigarettes and old pizza. This one stank of cigarettes, but the trays dotted strategically through the rooms held tiny quiches and piroshki. Tach snagged one, and the flaky pastry exploded in his mouth, followed quickly by the rich flavor of its mushroom filling.

  Brushing crumbs from his fingertips and the lapels of his coat, Tach reached up and patted Hiram on the shoulder. The big ace was dressed with his usual flair, but circles hung like bloated bruises beneath his eyes, and his skin had the unhealthy look of moist dough.

  “Don’t tell me you had time to slip down to the kitchens and cook all this,” teased Tachyon.

  “No, but my recipes…”

  “I suspected as much.” Tach bent and flicked a crumb from the top of his patent leather pump with the edge of his handkerchief. When he straightened, he had gathered his courage. “Hiram, are you all right?”

  The word exploded in a sharp puff. “Why?”

  “You look unwell. Come to my room later, and I’ll check you over.”

  “No. Thank you, but no. I’m fine. Just tired.” A smile creased the broad face as if it had been abruptly painted on by a cartoon animator.

  Tachyon expelled a pent-up breath, shook his head as he watched Hiram bustle away to greet Senator Daniel Moynihan. The alien circulated, smiling, shaking hands—it still struck him as an odd custom even after all these years. On Takis there were two extremes: limited contact because between telepaths casual touching was repugnant; or between close friends and relatives the full embrace. Either choice caused problems on Earth. The light touch seemed snobby, and the full embrace raised homophobic reactions in the males of this planet. So Tachyon mused, and watched his gloved hand being swallowed again and again by the eager clasping fingers of the humans who engulfed him.

  On a sofa set beneath one of the windows a man sat surrounded by three laughing women. The youngest sat on his knee. Behind him her sister leaned in, and twined her arms about his neck. Next to him on the sofa was a pretty gray-haired woman. Her dark eyes were affectionate as they rested on his face. There was a warmth in the scene that seemed to touch the emptiness that Tachyon felt in his own life.

  “Come on, Daddy,” pleaded the youngest. “Just one little speech.” Her voice altered slightly, gaining in sonority and depth. “‘What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, set honor in one eye, and death i’th’other, and I will look on both indifferently; for, let the gods so speed me as I love the name of honor more than I fear death.’”

  “No, no, no.” The man punctuated each word with a shake of the head.

  “Julius Caesar might not be the best choice for a political convention,” said Tachyon softly. Four sets of dark eyes regarded him; then the man lowered his gaze and his fingers combed nervously through his gray-shot beard. “Pardon my intrusion, but I could not help overhearing. I am Tachyon.”

  “We sort of guessed,” said the girl behind the sofa. She surveyed the Takisian’s brilliant outfit of green and pink, and tossed a droll look to her sister.

  “Josh Davidson.” The man indicated the woman beside him. “My wife, Rebecca, and my daughters, Sheila and Edie.”

  “Charmed.” Tachyon brushed his lips across the back of three hands.

  Edie chuckled, her gaze flickering between her father and sister. Emotions swirled about the little party. There was something just beneath the surface that Tachyon was missing, but deliberately missing. People had their secrets, and just because Tachyon could read them didn’t mean he had the right. Another lesson learned after forty years on Earth was the necessity of filtering. The cacophony of untrained human minds would soon have driven him mad if he hadn’t lived huddled behind his shields.

  “Now I recognize you,” said Tachyon. “You were brilliant last winter in Doll’s House.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you a delegate?”

  “Oh, god, no.” The woman laughed. “No, my daughter, Sheila, is our representation.”

  “Daddy’s a bit of a cynic where politics are concerned,” said the older sister. “We were lucky to get him down here at all.”

  “Keeping an eye on you, young lady.”

  “He thinks I’m still ten,” she confided with a wink to the Takisian.

  “A prerogative of fathers.” Davidson was staring so intently up at him that Tachyon wondered if this particular father was also sending him a warning—touch my daughters and lose your nuts. For his own amusement Tach decided to push it. He turned his blazing smile on the lovely Davidson daughters. “Perhaps I might buy the ladies Davidson lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sir,” said Sheila severely, but her eyes were dancing. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Tach laid a hand over his heart, and faltered, “Oh, my fame, my lamentable fame.”

  “You love it,” said Davidson, and there was a funny, faraway expression in his expressive eyes.

  “A condition that we perhaps share, Mr. Davidson?”

  “No, oh, no, I think not.”

  There were polite murmurs all around, and Tach moved on. He felt eyes boring into the middle of his back, but didn’t look back. It wouldn’t do to encourage either of those lovely girls. He was only doomed to disappoint them.

  5:00 P.M.

  Gregg had taken most of the other candidates for puppets as a matter of course. It was easy enough. All Gregg needed was to touch them for a few seconds. A lingering handshake was enough, long enough for Puppetman to cross the bridge of the touch and crawl into the other person’s mind, there to prowl in the caverns of hidden desires and emotions, bringing all the filth to life.

  Once the link was established, Gregg no longer needed the physical contact. As long as the puppet was within a few hundred yards, Puppetman could make the leap mentally. Gregg artfully used Puppetman during the campaign to make the other candidates stumble over a question or seem too forceful and blunt in stating their positions. He’d done that until Gimli had started interfering late in the primaries and Puppetman became too erratic and dangerous to use.

  Even though he’d had the opportunity, he’d left Jesse Jackson alone. The reverend was charismatic and forceful, a powerful speaker. Gregg even admired the reverend; certainly no one else in the campaign was so unabashedly straightforward, so unafraid of making bold statements. Jackson was an idealist, not a pragmatist like the rest. That was one strike against him.

  And Gregg knew from experience that prejudice was also real, that it was easy for the average person to mouth sympathy but not to act on it.

  The joker prejudice was real. The black prejudice was real. With or without Puppetman, Jackson would not become president even if he managed to get the nomination.

  Not this year. Not yet.

  It was something Gregg dared not say in public, but he also knew that Jackson was well aware of the fact, no matter what the man might say. So Gregg had let Jackson go his own way. In a way, it had made for a more interesting primary campaign.

  Now, with Puppetman wailing inside and far too unreliable to let loose again, Gregg
was forced to admit that it might have been a mistake. It would have made things much easier now.

  The Reverend Jackson sat across the room from Gregg in a voluminous leather armchair, his legs crossed over impeccably pressed black pants, his expensive silk tie knotted tightly around his throat. Around the Jackson campaign suite, his aides pretended not to watch. Two of Jackson’s sons flanked the reverend on wooden chairs.

  “Barnett is making a mockery of the Joker’s Rights plank,” Gregg was saying. “He’s diluting the impact by dragging in every special interest group he can think of. The trouble is that alone, I can’t stop him.”

  Jackson pursed his lips, tapped them with a forefinger. “You come asking for my help now, Senator, but once the platform fight is over, it will be business as usual. As much as I disagree with the Reverend Barnett on basic issues, I understand the political reality. The Joker’s Rights plank is your child, Senator. Without that plank’s passage, you’ll hardly appear to be a very effective leader for the country. After all, it’s your own fundamental issue and you can’t even make your own party listen.”

  Jackson looked almost pleased at the prospect.

  I can take care of that. Just let me out … Puppetman was angry, irritated. The power pushed at its restraints, wanting to lash out at the self-confident Jackson.

  Leave me alone. Just for a few minutes. Let me get through this.

  Gregg shoved the power back down, leaning back in his seat to cover the momentary inner conflict. Jackson was watching him, very carefully, very intently. The man had a predator’s eyes, mesmerizing and dangerous. Gregg could feel sweat starting on his brow, and he knew Jackson noticed it as well.

  “I’m not concerned with the nomination at the moment,” Gregg said, ignoring Puppetman. “I’m concerned with helping the jokers, who have experienced the same prejudice as your own people.”

  Jackson nodded. An aide brought a tray over to the coffee table between them. “Iced tea? No? Very well.” Jackson took a sip from his own glass and set it down again. Gregg could see the man thinking, gauging, wondering.

  And with me you could truly know. You could control those feelings …

  Be quiet.

  You need me, Greggie. You do.

  Intent on keeping Puppetman down, he missed the next few words. “… rumor is that you’ve been pushing your people very hard, Senator. You have even angered some of them. I’ve heard tales about instability, about a repeat of ’76.”

  Gregg flushed, started to retort heatedly, and then realized he was being goaded. This was exactly the reaction Jackson was trying to provoke. He forced himself to smile. “We’re all used to a certain amount of mudslinging, Reverend. And yes, I’ve been pushing hard. I always push when I believe in something strongly.”

  “And the accusation makes you angry.” Jackson smiled and waved a hand. “Oh, I know the feeling, Senator. In fact, I have the very same reaction when people question my work for civil rights. I’d expect it.” He steepled his hands under his chin and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Just what is it you want, Senator?”

  “A Joker’s Rights plank. Nothing more.”

  “And how do you propose to buy my support?”

  “I had hoped you would agree purely for the sake of the jokers. On humanitarian grounds.”

  “I feel deeply for the jokers, believe me, Senator. But I also know that a plank in a platform is just so many words. A platform commits no one to anything. I will fight for the rights of all oppressed people, with or without planks. I did not promise my people planks. I promised them I would do my best to win at this convention, and I am doing just that. I do not need a plank; you do.”

  Jackson reached for the glass again. He sipped, waiting and watching.

  “All right,” Gregg said at last. “I’ve talked with Devaughn and Logan on this. If you keep your delegates in line, we’ll release our Alabama delegates after the first vote with the strong recommendation they go to you.”

  “Alabama isn’t important to you. You took, what, ten percent of the delegates there?”

  “That ten percent could be yours. You were second to Barnett in Alabama. More importantly, it might indicate that momentum in the South was moving away from Barnett, which would benefit you.”

  “And you, as well,” Jackson pointed out. He shrugged. “I was also second in Mississippi.”

  Son of a bitch. “I’ll have to confirm this, but I can probably release my delegates there as well.”

  Jackson paused. He looked over at his sons, then back to Gregg. “I need to think about this,” he said.

  You’re letting it slip away, damn it! He’s only going to ask for more. I could have made him agree without any concessions. You’re a fool, Greggie.

  “We don’t have time,” Gregg said sharply. He regretted the words instantly. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, and Gregg hurried to smooth over the gaffe. “I’m sorry, Reverend. It’s just … it’s just that to the jokers out there, the platform isn’t words. The plank will be a symbol for them, a symbol that their voices have been heard. We all stand to gain, all of us who support them.”

  “Senator, you have a fine humanitarian record. But…”

  Let me have him…! “Reverend, sometimes my passion gets out of hand. Again, I apologize.”

  Jackson still frowned, but the anger was gone from his eyes.

  You almost blew it.

  Shut up. It was your interference. Let me handle it.

  You have to let me out. Soon.

  Soon. I promise. Just be quiet.

  “All right,” the reverend was saying. “I think I can arrange things with my people. Senator, you have my support.”

  Jackson held out his hand. Gregg could feel his fingers trembling as he took it. Mine! Mine! The power shuddered inside, screaming and clawing and throwing itself at the bars. It took all Gregg’s effort to hold Puppetman back as he shook hands with Jackson, and he broke the contact quickly.

  “Senator, are you all right?”

  Gregg smiled wanly at Jackson. “I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you, Reverend. Just a little bit hungry, that’s all.”

  6:00 P.M.

  “Where I was raised, a person does not seat themselves uninvited at another person’s table.”

  Tachyon shuffled through the seven pink message slips—all from Hiram—and thrust them into a pocket. “Where you were raised, a person also does not fail to acknowledge and thank another person for a gift. I know, I was there when you first learned to lisp out tank-oo when I would bring you candy.”

  The fury flaming in Fleur’s brown eyes was so intense that Tachyon flinched, and half raised a hand in defense.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?” She wrung her hands, the fingers twisting desperately through one another. “Why are you torturing me? Wasn’t killing my mother enough?”

  “In all fairness, I think your father and I must share the blame. I broke her mind, but he allowed her to be tortured in that sanatorium. If he had left her with me, I might have found a way to repair the broken shards.”

  “If that was the choice, then I’m glad she died. Better that than being your whore.”

  “Your mother was never a whore. You dishonor her and yourself by that remark. You can’t really feel that way.”

  “Well, I do, and why should I feel any differently? I never knew her. You saw to that.”

  “I didn’t throw her out of the house.”

  “She could have gone to her parents.”

  “She loved me.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Give me a chance, I could show you.”

  And as soon as the glib, flirtatious comment passed his lips Tachyon knew he had done a very stupid thing. As if to hold back the words, he pressed his fingers to his lips, but it was too late. Far, far too late.

  Forty years too late?

  Fleur rose from her chair like a wrathful goddess, and dealt him a ringing slap. Her nail caught
on his lower lip, splitting it, and he tasted the sharp, coppery taste of blood. All conversation ceased in Pompano’s. The silence made his skin crawl, and Tachyon chewed down the humiliation that filled his mouth like a foul taste. The tick of her high heels, as she stormed from the restaurant, beat into his ringing head.

  Carefully, he held up two fingers before his face. Counted them. Dabbed at the cup with her discarded napkin. It smelled faintly of her perfume. His jaw tightened into a stubborn line.

  8:00 P.M.

  “Muscular dystrophy. Is it up or down on MS, Charles?”

  “Christ!” Devaughn’s voice, roaring through Jack’s cellular phone, seemed surlier than ever. “I guess we can’t be against Jerry’s Kids, can we?”

  The convention band staggered into the last bars of “Mame.” Louis Armstrong could have played it better in his sleep. Jack was on the convention floor, standing on a scarred, gray folding chair, surrounded by his throng of Californians.

  “Up or down, Charles?” Jack demanded.

  “Up. Shit. Up.” Jack could clearly hear Devaughn’s fist banging on a desktop. “Shit-shit-shit. Shit-fuck-cunt. That bitch. That fucking WASP slut.”

  “I want to wring Fleur van Renssaeler’s neck.”

  “You’ll have to stand in line behind me, buddy.”

  “They’re calling the vote.” Emil Rodriguez tugged on Jack’s sleeve. Jack hung up his portable phone and gave the thumbs-up sign to his horde of delegates. He tried to picture thousands of Americans in wheelchairs and leg braces cheering and reshuffling their political alignment, but his imagination failed.

  Rodriguez, a short, bull-chested man, looked up at Jack with fury in his eyes.

  “This sucks, man,” he spat.

  Jack got down from the chair and lit up a smoke. “You said it, ese.”

  Jim Wright gaveled for order. Jack looked at the dissolving huddles of delegates and considered the chaos that had descended on Atlanta today. The violent demonstrations, the platform fight, Sara Moregenstern’s bizarre interruption of the press conference that morning.

  Secret ace? he thought.

  And then he thought, Which one?