Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  Gregg blinked stupidly, shocked. For the first time Gregg realized that Puppetman had spoken out loud. He’d been holding a goddamn out-loud conversation with Puppetman and hadn’t known. The horror of it made him moan.

  Ellen glanced at Ray.

  Billy looked from Ellen to Gregg, stared for long seconds. Then he backed out of the suite, closing the door behind him.

  Gregg was gasping in the middle of the room. He forced his breathing to slow. He tried to shrug, to pretend it had been nothing. “Ellen…” he began, but couldn’t say anything.

  He was suddenly crying, like a child frightened of the dark.

  Ellen came to him with a brave smile, cradling his head on her shoulder and stroking his hair. “It’s okay, Gregg,” she murmured, but he could hear the terror in her voice. “It’s okay now. Everything’s all right. I love you, darling. You just have to rest.” Words. Just words.

  Gregg could hear Gimli’s laughter and—for just a moment—he wondered why Ellen seemed to ignore it.

  “The great state of Iowa! God’s country! Corn country!” (Tachyon wondered how the man could keep up this kind of enthusiasm after so many ballots.) “Casts four votes for Senator Al Gore!”

  The Omni Convention Center made Tachyon think of a giant funnel. People, like tiny grains of spices, all clinging to the precipitous sides while gravity tried to tumble them willy-nilly into the level area of the basketball court. It was an exaggeration, of course, but the facility did give the alien vertigo.

  Dribbling powdered sugar down his coat front, Tachyon hurriedly balanced his cruller on top of his coffee cup, snatched up his fountain pen, and jotted down the number. Then glanced at the running totals in five columns each headed by an initial. Gore was definitely floundering. Only a matter of time now. Hartmann had crawled painfully to nineteen hundred. Tach drew the back of his hand across his gritty, aching eyes. His session with the Secret Service had lasted until five. By then it seemed pointless to go to bed.

  “Your boy’s in trouble,” said Connie Chung, sliding into a folding chair behind him. The headset with its antenna made her look like a lopsided insect.

  “My boy, as you put it, is doing just fine. Once Gore drops out—”

  “You’re going to be in for a rude shock.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Tach, alarmed.

  “He’s faced with a choice between three Northern liberals and a conservative Southerner. What do you think—”

  “No,” said Tach with loathing.

  She brushed sugar from his chin. “You really are a baby at this, Doctor. Watch and learn.” She started away then looked back and added, “Oh, by the way, Gore’s called a press conference for ten o’clock.”

  The phone rang during Jack’s first Camel of the day. For a moment he couldn’t find his briefcase, then discovered it under the coffee table. He picked up the receiver and collapsed on the couch. His caller was Amy Sorenson.

  “We’re in trouble. Gregg wants your ass over here.”

  Jack stared at the ceiling through gummed eyes. “What’s the problem?”

  “Gore’s called a press conference for later this morning. He’s dropping out, and he’s gonna tell his people to support Barnett.”

  “That cocksucker! That yuppie cocksucker!” For once Jack wasn’t conscious of using bad language in front of a woman. He jumped off the couch, knocking the coffee table halfway across the room. “He’s going to be Barnett’s veep, right?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Prince Albert in a fucking can.”

  “And some wild card talent carved up a member of the Fourth Estate in Peachtree Mall last night, so guess who’s gonna be capitalizing on it. Just get over here.”

  The staff meeting couldn’t resolve anything except to hold on and hope for defections. Gore’s endorsement couldn’t be anything but the result of some major payoff, and it might offend some of his followers who couldn’t stomach Barnett.

  Hartmann gained another 104 delegates on the fourth ballot, so Jack’s worst fears weren’t realized. But Barnett picked up nearly three hundred, and the momentum was definitely his. On his little two-inch Sony, Jack heard Dan Rather relate stories of party power brokers trying to form an “anyone but Hartmann” movement. Speculations about a dream Dukakis/Jackson ticket were spiced with pointed reminders that Jackson had more delegates, and perhaps the ticket should be Jackson/Dukakis. Analysts wondered whether Jackson was willing to eat crow in order to be vice president.

  Apparently he wasn’t. The ABH movement, as Rather began calling it, seemed to remain the fantasy of a few party hacks and the Barnett campaign staff, who regarded “Anyone but Hartmann” as the equivalent of “Why not the Fire-breather?”

  Anyone but Hartmann. Jack couldn’t believe he was hearing this. Why the hell wasn’t it Anyone but Barnett?

  A secret ace, he thought. Maybe there’s a secret ace.

  The gremlins from the Kremlin as an alternate hypothesis was definitely losing ground.

  At first it went well. Sara could do this walking in her sleep, the mechanical interviews, stuff of every third Sunday supplement article and human interest story on the tank town ten o’clock news: What’s it like to be a joker in America?

  It wasn’t good journalism. It was something she specifically despised: families-of-dead-shuttle-astronauts, how-does-it-feel-to-be-raped reporting. But of course this wasn’t journalism at all; it was survival.

  It all went fine until she was recognized.

  The jokers camped in the park came from all over: California, Idaho, Vermont, even a few from Alaska and Hawaii. While the better-read of them would recognize her name—she was one of the premiere writers on wild card matters in the world, after all—she wasn’t a broadcast journalist. Everybody knew Connie Chung’s face, nobody knew hers. That had always satisfied her.

  But there were a lot of her old buddies from J-town here, too. She hadn’t even thought what their reaction to her would be until a furred, taloned hand took her shoulder and spun her away from the joker mother and two desperately disparate children she was unspooling inanities from, into a hot blast of spoiled-meat predator’s breath.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing here?” a voice asked.

  The first panicked reaction was still echoing in the corridors of Sara’s brain, It’s him I wish I had a gun dear God Ricky Ricky, when she recognized the person who’d accosted her. She was hard to mistake: six feet from the black moist nose at the end of her wedge-shaped head to the tip of her tail, round-eared, bandit-masked, black guard hairs over buff fur shading toward silver on her belly, like a Disneymation anthropomorphic ferret made real. The only thing she wore was a green vest studded with Hartmann buttons and bitter joker slogans: WHY BE NORMAL? and JJS! and TAKE A NAT TO LUNCH. Sara knew her well; she should have been just another teenaged Italian girl wearing a dowdy, blue-plaid skirt to St. Mary’s. She’d been busted for the first time at fourteen, during a Free Doughboy demonstration.

  “Mustelina,” she said. “Hi. How are you?”

  “What do you think you’re doing here, bitch?” Sara recoiled from her vehemence. It was amazing how the Disney people always missed details like the two-inch fangs curving from her upper jaw.

  “What do you mean?” The time she’d spent among jokers had inured her so she didn’t flinch away from the girl’s breath. Mustelina’s joker had included a compulsive craving for live meat. Fortunately there were a lot of rats in Jokertown.

  A crowd was accreting. Many of the jokers from the sticks were anonymous behind masks, but the J-town contingent tended to parade its jokerhood, wearing disfigurements like proud stigmata. She recognized Glowbug and Mr. Cheese and Peanut with his hard-shelled stump and a strange look in his eye. They had been her friends. There was little friendship here now.

  “You know real well what I mean. You sold us to Barnett.”

  She blinked, tears starting hot. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the one tr
ied to smear Senator Gregg,” a Southern voice said from behind a Kabuki mask with eyebrows halfway up a domed white forehead.

  “You turned on Hartmann,” Mustelina said. “You turned on us. You got a lot of nerve coming here like this.”

  “Yeah, traitor,” somebody else called.

  “Nat!”

  “Fucking Jew bitch!”

  She tried to back away. They hemmed her on all sides, the faces of grotesques by Goya and Hokusai and Bosch, hostile masks of feathers and plastic smooth as bone. Why did I come here? These are Hartmann’s people.

  Suddenly Mustelina was snatched right out of her face and thrown fifteen feet. She curled into a ball, rolled, came up bottling and popping like a string of firecrackers.

  A vast white figure loomed over the incipient mob. It held out a chubby hand, pallid and shiny as uncooked dough.

  “Come on, Thara,” it lisped in the voice of a black child. “I’ll take you where it’th thafe.”

  She clung to the hand. Doughboy started forward with his rolling gait and Sara at his side. The crowd gave back. He was nonviolent. He also weighed in at upwards of six hundred, and had the strength of three or four nat men. In his own way he was quite irresistible.

  “I thaw you on Mechano’s televithion,” Doughboy said. “You were thaying terrible things about the thenator. Everybody thaid you were a twaitor.”

  She looked up at him. His face was an unpitted moon. He smiled without lips or teeth.

  “You are my friend, Thara. I knew you’d never do nothing wrong.”

  She hugged him. She also kept walking. This was an ideal place for Hartmann’s marionette to hit her, it had belatedly occurred to her. For that matter, if it hadn’t been for Doughboy’s arrival, his work might just have been done for him. Some of the crowd was still trailing along behind.

  “Will you bwing me some candy sometime, Mith Thara?” Doughboy asked. “Nobody brings me candy since Mithter Thyiner went away.”

  He stopped at the street and faced her. “When will Mithter Thyiner come back? Do you think he’ll come back soon?”

  “He’s not coming back, honey,” she said gently. “You know that.” It had been a stroke, that January. Doughboy found him paralyzed on his mattress in their little Eldridge Street apartment, carried him through the streets weeping and begging for someone to help fix Mr. Shiner. He reached Jokertown Clinic before an ambulance with a heavy enough suspension to carry him could be found—nobody was going to try to separate him from his friend and guardian. By that time there was nothing even Dr. Tachyon could do.

  Tears rolled from Doughboy’s button eyes. “I mith him. I mith him tho.”

  She reached up. She wasn’t tall enough. He bent over until she could wrap her arms around his neck.

  “I know you do, honey,” she said through her own tears. “Thank you for helping me. I’ll bring you candy soon. I love you.”

  She kissed his cheek and walked quickly away without looking back.

  11:00 A.M.

  “Doctor!”

  He studied the handsome dark face, the intense eyes actively scanning the lobby of the Marriott. Missing nothing.

  Tach bowed slightly. “Reverend.”

  “Deserting the floor of the convention?”

  “Too chaotic.”

  “And disappointing?” suggested Jesse Jackson softly.

  “It will be all right.” Tach cocked his head speculatively. “And you, entering the stronghold of the enemy?”

  “Gregg Hartmann is not my enemy.”

  “Ah, then you would have no objection to dropping out, and handing your delegates to the senator?”

  Jackson laughed. “Doctor, you beat me to the punch. May we talk?” He indicated a sofa near one wall of the upper lobby.

  AP, Time, the Sun Times, and the Post began circling like barracuda. Straight Arrow, the Mormon ace from Utah, and Jackson’s ace bodyguard, eyed them with an unblinking stare. The news of Tachyon’s bombshell had spread quickly through the security forces. To Tachyon’s knowledgeable eye the lobby seemed filled with discretely armed men.

  “Wouldn’t your suite be more private?” asked the Takisian dryly.

  The flash of white teeth behind the mustache. “Private is not what I’m after. Let ’em speculate.”

  Tachyon debated. Decided that perhaps he and the Reverend Jackson could use one another. Some might speculate that Tachyon’s support of Hartmann was wavering. Others might decide that Jackson was about to endorse Hartmann.

  They settled onto the sofa. The tall black man, the diminutive alien with one leg tucked up beneath him.

  “I want you to transfer your support to me,” said Jackson bluntly.

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. I’m the logical candidate to represent the jokers and aces. Together we can build a new world.”

  “I’ve been here forty-two years, Reverend, and I’m still waiting for that new world.”

  “You must not give in to cynicism, pessimism, and despair, Doctor. I hadn’t expected that from you. You’re a fighter—like me.” Tachyon didn’t speak, and Jackson went on. “We have the same interests.”

  “Do we? I want to see my people protected. You want to be president.”

  “Help me become president, and then I can protect your people—my people, too.” He frowned at the far wall. “Doctor, my foreparents came to America on slave ships. You came here in a spaceship, but we’re in the same boat now. If Barnett becomes president we all suffer.”

  Tachyon shook his head more in confusion than negation. “I don’t know. Gregg Hartmann has been our friend for twenty years. Why should I abandon him now?”

  Help me.

  Kill me.

  Believe me.

  He ruthlessly silenced the voices.

  “Because he can’t win. The senator is stalling. My people are reporting ‘Anyone-but-Hartmann’ coalitions springing up all over the convention. If Gregg Hartmann can’t stop Leo Barnett, Michael Dukakis certainly cannot.”

  “And you can?”

  That self-confident grin that had galvanized a country. Like an arc light in its intensity. “Yes, I can.” The smile faded, and he stared intently down at Tachyon. “I understand. I know abandonment, and people being mean to you, and saying you’re nothing and nobody and can never be anything. I understand.” His hand gripped the Takisian’s shoulder.

  Tachyon laid his hand over Jackson’s. The same perfectly manicured nails, the same long slender fingers, but white on black. “Why is it when you and Barnett are reputed to serve the same god, your gods are so different?”

  “A good question, Doctor. A very good question.”

  A Flying Ace Glider sighed softly onto the tile at Tachyon’s feet. He picked it up, stroked the molded white scarf with a forefinger. Jackson stared at the painted black face. His hand rose reflexively, and he drew his fingers down his cheek.

  “Is your reluctance to back me entirely due to your loyalty, or is it because I’m black?”

  Tach’s head snapped up. “Burning Sky, no.” He rose. “Believe me, Reverend, if I should ever decide to transfer my support from Gregg Hartmann you would be my first choice. You see, you have a charisma that is almost Takisian in its magnitude.”

  Jackson smiled. “And I take it that’s a compliment?”

  “Of the highest, Reverend, of the highest.”

  12:00 NOON

  Gregg’s room-service lunch sat untouched and cold on the coffee table of the suite. The Sony blared unheeded, and Tachyon sat like some damn wooden god on the couch. Dangerously near the surface, Gregg could hear Puppetman’s voice, mingled with Gimli’s mocking laughter. It took all of his concentration not to lose himself in the subliminal chatter and say something that would reveal the conflict underneath.

  Worst of all, Gregg was afraid that Puppetman might start speaking out loud again.

  He paced restlessly in front of the windows. The entire time he could feel Tachyon’s violet gaze on him: judging, appra
ising, cool. Gregg knew he was talking too much, but the motion and the monologue seemed to help keep Puppetman down.

  “Barnett’s up another hundred votes in the last ballot. One hundred votes! We’ve gained what—twenty, twenty-five? Someone’s got to start plugging the holes, Doctor. Hell, Charles said he’d talked to Gore’s staff and was told Gore was planning to stay in. That was just last night, for chris’sakes. Barnett must have promised him the damn VP spot in return for the delegates. We’ve got half the press yapping about an ‘Anyone but Hartmann’ movement, which means some of the on-the-fence delegates are going to start believing it. Barnett’s already benefited from that garbage; Dukakis is back there smiling and shaking hands and waiting for the deadlock or a deal.”

  “I know all this, Senator,” Tachyon said. There was a trace of impatience in his voice as he folded delicate hands on his lap.

  “Then let’s start doing something about it, damn it.” The alien’s cool haughtiness made Gregg’s temper flare, and Puppetman rose with the irritation. No, idiot, he told the power. Not with him here, of all people. Please.

  “I’m doing what I can,” Tachyon said with clipped, precise words. “Browbeating those who support you isn’t likely to get you anywhere, Senator. Especially not among your friends.”

  Gregg had no “friends,” no confidants—unless he counted Puppetman. He suspected Tachyon was the same. They called each other “friend,” but it was mostly the residue of a political/social relationship that went back to the mid-sixties, when Gregg was a councilman and, later, mayor of New York. Gregg had performed favors for Tachyon, Tachyon had done the same for him. They both affected the politics of the liberal, the left. That far they were friends.

  Tachyon was an ace. Gregg was afraid of aces, especially aces who could read minds. He knew that if Tachyon suspected the truth, the alien would not hesitate even one moment in revealing Gregg to the public.

  So much for friendship. The thought made Gregg angrier yet.