Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  For hours the convention had been tearing itself to bits over the Joker’s Rights plank. The platform committee had passed it with a strong dissent from Barnett’s crowd: Barnett had moved the issue onto the floor while no one was looking, and then the sweaty brawl started in earnest. Barnett’s people stood united against the plank, Hartmann for, and Jackson made a principled stand with Hartmann. The others had just tried to delay things till they could work out how much mileage they could get out of declaring one way or another. The thing might have breezed through if it hadn’t been for the violence surrounding the joker camp that afternoon; the middle-of-the-road candidates hung on for as long as possible, wondering if there was going to be an anti-joker backlash, but eventually the delegates began sideling toward the Hartmann point of view.

  It was then that the Barnett campaign made their master stroke. Since they realized they couldn’t stop the plank from passing, they began their attempts to dilute it.

  Why should the party be only in favor of Joker’s Rights, they asked. Shouldn’t the party declare in favor of the rights of people with other handicaps?

  Soon there was an up-or-down vote on whether victims of multiple sclerosis should be included in the civil rights plank. While Hartmann’s managers, knowing perfectly well they were being sandbagged, cursed and threw furniture, the motion passed unanimously: no Democrat was going to be caught dead opposing people with an incurable illness.

  Other diseases followed: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, Guillain-Barré syndrome, spina bifida, post-polio syndrome—the vote on that one was close, mainly because no one had ever heard of it—and now Jerry’s Kids. Barnett was succeeding in making the whole Joker’s Rights issue look ridiculous.

  Barnett’s delegate head from Texas, a blue-haired woman in a white cowboy hat, red lacquered boots, and a matching red skirt and vest with a swaying white Buffalo Bob fringe, was on her feet making another motion. Jack told his phone to dial HQ and climbed on his chair again.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Rodriguez. “It’s AIDS.”

  A panicked yelp went up from the convention. Barnett had made his master stroke. The eyes of every viewer panicked by retrovirus homophobic hysteria would be glued to the set, ready to see if the Democrats would endorse the pollution of their bodily fluids by lurking sodomites and junkies drooling contamination from every orifice. Furthermore, Barnett had convincingly linked AIDS with xenovirus Takis-A.

  “Up or down, Charles?” Jack asked wearily.

  “Fuck the queers!” Devaughn raged. “The hell with this!”

  Jack grinned and gave his people the thumbs-down.

  The retrovirus lost in a landslide. The convention had had enough of Barnett’s tactics. The distractions had provided amusement for a while, and had succeeded in their principal duty of making Hartmann’s convictions look silly, but now they were getting tiresome.

  The Texas lady received instructions from on high and called for no more votes. Hartmann’s people quietly moved that all other persons suffering from diseases were to be included in the civil rights plank. The motion passed unanimously.

  The platform was moved and passed. Jim Wright gaveled the long day to a weary end. Hats and signs and flying ace gliders soared into the air from thankful delegates.

  Jack told his delegates to be ready bright and early the next morning. By the end of Wednesday there were going to be at least two ballots, and they would say a lot about where the convention was headed.

  He lit another Camel and watched the thousands of delegates funneling out the exits. The band serenaded their retreat with “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.”

  For once Jack didn’t react to the hated song. He was thinking about a secret ace.

  9:00 P.M.

  Billy Ray called Gregg from the Marriott’s lobby. “Senator, you still interested in meeting with Barnett? Lady Black just told me he’s on his way back to the hotel from a meeting.”

  It had been a horrible day. The afternoon and evening were worse than the morning. Amy, John, and finally Devaughn had tried vainly to arrange a conference with Barnett. They’d gotten as far as Fleur, who told them flatly that Barnett wasn’t interested in speaking with Gregg. The struggle on the floor had reflected that uncooperative attitude.

  Either Barnett or Fleur van Renssaeler had turned out to be a savvy political strategist. It had taken all of Gregg’s influence to keep any kind of Joker’s Rights plank in the platform at all, and without the support of Jackson, it would have been impossible. The plank finally adopted was a toothless, emasculated version of the original, fettered with conditions and clouded language. The kindest thing that could be said of it was that it was a Joker’s Rights plank, the first. The networks might call it a “minor triumph” for Hartmann and the jokers; the angry crowds out in the streets knew it meant nothing.

  With the platform set, the reasons for meeting Barnett were gone. All but one. The interior voice was emphatic. Do it.

  “Senator? If we just happen to be in the hall or something when he—”

  Worst of all, he’d had to deal with Puppetman’s increasing desperation since the incident outside. He’d tried, but had never managed to submerge the power again. Puppetman was there, alongside him.

  People were noticing. Jackson certainly had. Ellen was staring at him when she thought he wasn’t looking; Amy, Braun, Devaughn all were handling him with obvious kid gloves. If he wanted this nomination, he had to do something about Puppetman. He couldn’t afford to have his attention divided so strongly.

  “Thanks, Billy. It sounds good. We have a few minutes? I’d like to freshen up.”

  “Sure. I’ll be up to get you.”

  Gregg hung up and went into the bathroom. He stared at the mirror. “You’re out of control,” he whispered. Gimli’s cold amusement answered him.

  The day’s efforts had cost him—the image that gazed back at him looked exhausted. Barnett’s for me, Puppetman insisted again, and Gregg almost expected to see his lips move with the words. Once we take him as a puppet, we can maneuver him the way we did Gephardt and Babbit. Just a nudge here and there …

  We were going to try that before, at one of the debates, Gregg reminded him. He always stayed away from us, never let us shake his hand or touch him at all. This is crazy.

  Puppetman scoffed. This time he will. You have to trust me. You can’t win without my help.

  But Gimli—

  We must try. If you stop fighting me, we can do it.

  All right. All right.

  Billy Ray insisted on talking for the few minutes it took to go down to Barnett’s floor. Gregg let the monologue run unabated; he heard nothing of it. When the elevator doors opened, Ray stepped out, flashing his ID, to speak with the guards posted there. Gregg went to the edge of the balcony and stared down at the glittering lobby. A glider had landed on the carpet beside him: Mistral. He picked the toy up and gave it a gentle toss. It looped and then settled into a steady descent. Someone a few floors down saw it and gave a boozy cheer.

  Five minutes later, an elevator chimed. Gregg turned to see Lady Black step out, followed by Fleur and Leo Barnett. Gregg put on a smile and strode forward. “Reverend Barnett, you’re very well protected by your staff.”

  Lady Black had stepped aside, but Fleur remained between Gregg and Barnett, scowling and giving Gregg no choice but to stop or run into her. He moved to one side and held out his hand to Barnett.

  Puppetman hunched, ready to leap.

  Barnett was bluffly handsome, a fair-haired vision of the Southern preacher. A faint smile lurked in his full lips, and the soft twang of his origins inhabited his resonant voice. “Senator Hartmann, I’m sorry. Sometimes my staff seems to think I need their protection as well as the Lord’s. You understand.” He looked at the proffered hand, and that faint smile crossed his mouth again. “And I’d gladly shake your hand, Senator, but unfortunately mine’s rather sore at the moment. A little mishap downstairs in the lobby.”

  Puppetman cursed. Greg
g pulled his hand back.

  “Tell him that it was a joker, Reverend,” Fleur snapped coldly. “Tell him how you shook the sinner’s hand and how he tried to crush it. I still think you should go to the hospital. A fracture—”

  “It’s only a bruise, sister. Please…” Barnett smiled at Gregg as if sharing some private joke. “I’m sure the senator has had similar experiences. Handshaking’s the bane of politicians.”

  “That it is,” Gregg said. He was so damned tired of smiling. He nodded to the stone-faced Fleur. “And I’m especially sorry it was a joker.”

  “A joker with one of your campaign buttons,” Fleur sniffed.

  “Which my people, like yours, give out by the thousands,” Gregg countered, a little too sharply. He turned to Barnett. “There are enough misunderstandings already. I wanted to give you and your staff my congratulations on a hard fight over the platform, and to say that I’m glad we could finally come to a compromise.”

  That made Barnett’s lips twitch, and Gregg knew he’d touched a nerve. “I did not agree to the modified plank,” Barnett said. “There were, well, weak-hearted souls among my delegates who saw fit to accept it over my protest. It was a mistake, and—I must confess my own vanity—I’m sick over it. But the Lord also makes use of defeats, Senator. He’s shown me that I was wrong trying to play these political games. I’m finding that this convention is hardly the place for someone like me.”

  For a moment, Gregg felt an uplift of optimism. If Barnett were to withdraw his nomination, even if he instructed his delegates to vote for Dukakis or Jackson … But Barnett was smiling again, taking out the well-worn Bible stuffed in his suit jacket’s pocket and patting its gilded covers. “I am a man of God, Senator. For the remainder of this convention, I intend to do what I know best: I will pray. I will lock the doors of this world and open the doors of my soul.”

  Gregg’s face must have shown his confusion. “Today was hardly a defeat for you, Reverend, and hardly a victory for me. I’d like to work with you to make a new path, one both we and our party can follow. Isolating yourself isn’t the answer.”

  Barnett nodded seriously, as if weighing Gregg’s argument in his mind. “It might be that you’re right, Senator. If so, then I have to trust that God will make it known to me. Still, I fully expect to spend the rest of this convention in prayer and not in playing the convention power games. Fleur’s well-equipped to handle all that for the time being. I’m a stubborn fool sometimes. I don’t really believe in compromise, I’ve no delusion that there is more than one right path. The God I know and the God I’ve seen in the Bible doesn’t compromise. God never came to ‘understandings,’ God never made ‘concessions to political realities.’” Barnett glanced at Gregg, concern lining his high forehead. “I don’t mean to offend you, Senator, but I have to say what I believe.”

  “Yet I believe in the very same God, Reverend. We’re only men, not God Himself. We do the best we can; we’re not enemies. It’s human pride that keeps us apart. The least we can do as leaders is shake hands and try to resolve our differences.” Gregg lathed his words with earnest conviction. “For the good of all. That would seem to be a truly Christian act.” Gregg gave a bluff, self-deprecating chuckle and put out his hand once more. “I promise not to squeeze.”

  Puppetman quivered in anticipation. For a moment, he was certain that it had worked. Barnett hesitated, rocking on his toes. Then the preacher thoughtfully clasped his hands together around his Bible.

  “The act I’d like to see us share, Senator, is prayer. Let me make an invitation to you. Join me in my vigil. Let’s leave the politics to the delegates and kneel together for the next several days.”

  “Reverend…” Gregg began. He shook his head. Why? Why does he avoid us every time?

  Barnett nodded, almost sadly. “I thought not,” he said. “We walk very different paths, Senator.” He began walking toward his room, clutching the Bible in his right hand.

  Gregg let his hand drop to his side. “You don’t shake hands with enemies, Reverend?” Gregg’s voice was harsh, tinged with Puppetman’s vitriol. Fleur, following behind Barnett, flushed angrily. Barnett simply favored Gregg with another of his sorrowful, secretive smiles.

  “People expect Biblical quotes from a man of God, Senator,” he said. “It’s not surprising, since the Bible often has just the right word for the occasion. One comes to mind now, from 1 Timothy: ‘The Spirit distinctly says that in later times some will turn away from the faith and will heed deceitful spirits and things taught by demons through plausible liars—men with seared consciences.’ Now that’s a bit of hyperbole, Senator, but I think that—unbeknownst, perhaps—a demon taints your words. We’re not enemies, Senator. At least I don’t think so. And even if we were, I’d still pray that you’d come into the light and cleanse yourself. There’s always hope for redemption. Always.”

  Barnett gave Gregg an unblinking, long stare. There was a distinct click as he turned the deadbolt behind him.

  The brandy kept hitting the cut on his lip, and each time it drew a yelp. And a smirk from the bartender. Tachyon considered telling her to fuck off; then he realized what a picture he must present. The mark of Sara’s nails from last night’s fiasco lay like red furrows dug in the white skin of his cheek. His lower lip was split and slightly swollen from Fleur’s nail. What a singularly unsuccessful lothario he was. No wonder the young woman behind the bar smirked. Women. They always stuck together.

  “Hi. Mind if I join you?”

  Josh Davidson slid onto the stool next to him. Tach turned to greet him with genuine pleasure. “No, not at all.”

  “When a man sits huddled on a stool at a bar, it generally means he wants to be alone, but I thought I’d take a chance.”

  “I’m glad you did. Buy you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  An awkward silence fell between the two men, punctuated only by Davidson’s order. Suddenly they shifted to face one another, and both said in chorus,

  “I’ve admired—”

  “I’ve always admired you—”

  They laughed, and Tachyon said, “Well, isn’t that convenient? We obviously have good taste.” Tach paused and sipped brandy. “Why are you down here?”

  Davidson shrugged. “Curiosity.”

  “About what?”

  “The political process. Can a man make a difference?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m convinced of it.”

  “But you come from a culture that puts a premium on individual effort,” said Davidson, rolling his glass between his palms.

  “I take it you don’t agree?”

  “I don’t know. It seems a questionable proposition to allow one man’s vision, opinion, to shape policy.”

  “But in this political system it never happens. Even in my aristocratic culture the absolute despot is a fantasy. There are always competing interests.”

  “Yes, so how do you choose between them?”

  Frowning, Tachyon said, “You make the decision.”

  “That sounds so easy. But what right do you have to substitute your judgment for … for…”

  “The will of the people?” suggested the Takisian.

  “Yes.”

  Tachyon steepled his fingers before his mouth, threw back his head, and regarded the wineglasses hanging like crystal stalactites from their rack. “A representative owes the People not only his industry, but his judgment, and he betrays them if he sacrifices it to their opinion … Edmund Burke.”

  Davidson’s laughter was sharp and clear. Tachyon stiffened. “Doctor, you astound me.”

  Tachyon didn’t reply. He knew he astounded people. He had astounded people since the moment of his arrival on this planet. August 23, 1946. Ideal, where had the time gone? Forty-two years. He had lived almost as long on this world as on his own. Home.

  “Hello? Where are you?” Dark, thoughtful eyes, soft with concern.

  “On a world that doesn’t exist for me anymore.” Homesickness lay like a jagged lump in
the back of Tach’s throat.

  “So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

  Passed over to the end they were created,

  Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

  Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

  Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

  To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

  Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

  To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?”

  The men’s eyes locked. “Doesn’t that describe Takis?” asked Davidson softly.

  “And Earth. Treachery may be the one constant in an inconstant universe.” Tach rose abruptly. “Pray excuse me. You were right, I do need to be alone.”

  11:00 P.M.

  The day had been a total washout. Spector sprawled on the bed, two pillows propping him up. He had the TV remote control in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. It was his bedtime ritual, and helped him feel less out of place.

  He wasn’t going to get to Hartmann in this building, not unless he was lucky beyond belief. And he’d used up his luck in getting this far. He didn’t have access to the areas of the hotel that Hartmann would be in, except during press conferences. And he’d noticed that politicians rarely looked you in the eye unless you asked them a question. He wasn’t dumb enough to draw that kind of attention to himself.

  He sipped at his drink and played channel roulette. Atlanta had gotten pounded again, this time by the Cardinals. The news was full of political bullshit, of course. Was Hartmann porking this stupid reporter bitch? Did Leo Barnett really think God spoke to him? Spector wished he’d gotten contracts to kill them all. Politicians were mostly people who’d had too little morals and ethics to stay lawyers.

  He’d eventually settled on an old movie. It was a period piece, set in France during the revolution. There was a guy in it who talked like Odie Cologne from the King Leonardo cartoons. Spector thought the actor had a double role, but hadn’t been paying close enough attention to be sure. None of the colors looked like anything that occurred in nature. Just pastels that blurred and bled into each other anytime someone moved. Ted Turner’s movies looked about as good as his baseball team.