Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  “Then let’s talk frankly. As friends,” Gregg shot back. “The talk is all over the convention. You’ve been chasing Fleur van Renssaeler like some horny teenager. There are things here more important than your gonads, Doctor.”

  Gregg had never dared to speak to Tachyon that way before, not to a person with such a formidable mind power, not with Puppetman lurking in his head. Tachyon flushed a deep red. He rose to his feet with swift offended dignity. “Senator—” he began, but Gregg wheeled around with a chopping motion of his hand.

  “No, Doctor. No.” Gregg’s anger was a glowing coal stuck in his chest. He wanted to use his fists on the prissily dressed man and see that fine, aristocratic nose flatten and splatter blood over the frilly satin shirt. Gregg gritted his teeth to keep from shouting in fury, from backhanding Tachyon’s arrogant face. He ached to kick the man in his goddamn alien balls. It wasn’t only Tachyon. It was the whole frigging day—the way his momentum had come to a wheezing halt on the convention floor, the eternal gnawing of Puppetman, the chortling of Gimli, Mackie’s failures in New York and here since Chrysalis’s death, Ellen: everything.

  For just a moment, he wondered if Puppetman hadn’t fanned the embers. The thought cooled him. He grimaced.

  “I need you. You can pretend to be just a correspondent, but everyone knows better. You’re a very, very visible supporter,” he told Tachyon. “Everyone is extremely aware of your help with my campaign and our stand on the wild card issues. How does it look to the rest of the convention if the good doctor is obviously more concerned about getting laid than with making sure his candidate is nominated? Priorities, Doctor. Priorities.”

  Tachyon took a deep breath in through his nose, lifting his chin. “I don’t need to be lectured like some errant child. Not by you, Senator, and especially not after I’ve spent the entire morning working for you. I find your accusations extremely distasteful.”

  “How distasteful will it be if Barnett is the next president, Doctor? He may pretend to be compassionate, but we all know what will happen. Do you think you’ll still have funding for your clinic? Is what will happen to the jokers then worth a few minutes of grunting passion between a woman’s legs?”

  “Senator—” Tachyon uttered in outrage.

  Gregg laughed, and the sound had a manic, cutting edge. He was sweating, his Brooks Brothers shirt ringed under the arms. “Doctor, I’m sorry. I apologize for offending you. I’m being blunt because I’m concerned. For me, yes, but also for the jokers. If we lose here, everyone affected by the wild card loses too. You understand that, I know.”

  Tachyon’s lips were a thin, bloodless line. The angry flush lurked on his high cheekbones. “I understand better than anyone, Senator. It would do you good to remember that.”

  He spun on his toes in a graceful ballet turn and strode quickly to the door. Gregg thought that he’d stop and say more, but Tachyon simply walked out, nodding to Billy Ray stationed outside.

  “Not even a fucking exit line,” someone said in Gregg’s voice.

  Gregg wasn’t sure who it was that spoke.

  1:00 P.M.

  A scuffle had broken out between a member of the New York delegation and an old woman from Florida. The two women had gone from shoves to the teeth-bared and hands-in-claws stage. Hiram, blood suffusing his face, eyes almost popping with fury, flung chairs aside and rolled toward them. At the tiered wedding-cake podium Jim Wright was banging desperately and ineffectually. He gaped as the head broke clean off the gavel, and went sailing away into the crowd.

  Tachyon, end-running through the milling throng, saw Hiram clench his fist, then an indescribable expression washed across the ace’s face, leaving his expression as blank as a beach after a retreating wave. The plump manicured hand fell open and hung limply at his side.

  The old bat was wearing a Barnett button and a large wooden cross. For an instant the Takisian hesitated; then, seeing the sharp toe of the Florida delegate’s shoe lifting for a kick, he threw caution to the wind, and mind-controlled the both of them.

  The press arrived.

  Security arrived.

  Fleur arrived.

  “How dare you! Let her go!” Fleur dropped her arm protectively over the Barnett delegate’s shoulder.

  Tach noted that Hiram had a grip on the New York madam. He bowed jerkily. “With pleasure, just don’t let her hit me.”

  “OH MY GOD! HE CRAWLED IN MY MIND! HE POLLUTED ME! ALIEN—”

  “Madam, I make it a point never to pollute ladies of your age and situation with my precious alien fluids. Or my precious alien time.”

  “Bastard!” Fleur swept the sobbing woman away.

  Hiram drew a hand across his brow. “Not tactful, Tachy.”

  “I’m not feeling very tactful. This is a disaster.”

  “This overcrowding makes fights inevitable,” said Hiram.

  They settled into some empty chairs. Even Tach’s knees were practically at his chin, so closely packed were the chairs. With a furtive glance for security or cameras the Takisian unlimbered his flask. Hiram gulped down an enormous swallow of brandy, choked, and suddenly Tach was shivering in distress as tears started rolling down Worchester’s fat cheeks to mat in the heavy black beard. Sobs shook the massive body.

  Tachyon threw his arms around Hiram, patting, rocking, soothing. A string of nonsense words, endearments, and reassurances poured from his lips. His own voice was jumping.

  The emotional storm passed, and Tach offered his handkerchief. Hiram touched his brow, lips with tentative fingers.

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “It is quite all right. We are all under such strain.”

  “Tachyon, he has to win!”

  The alien glanced from the wild, staring eyes to Hiram’s hands closed viselike around Tach’s arms. The human’s knuckles were turning white from the pressure. Tachyon lightly touched one hand, and said very softly and very gently, “Hiram, please, you’re hurting me.”

  Worchester released him like a sprung trap. “Sorry. Sorry. Tachyon, we have to do whatever it takes, don’t we? This is too important to leave to chance … to the good will of others. This is one time when the end may justify any means. Yes?”

  Eyes closed Tachyon remembered Syria. Jokers being stoned to death in the streets before the bored or avid eyes of the nat passersby. South Africa. A time, not so very long ago, when it wasn’t considered a crime to rape a joker woman—just a lapse in taste.

  “Yes, Hiram. Maybe you’re right.”

  Patting the restaurateur absently on the shoulder Tach went in search of Charles Devaughn. What he was considering … no, committed to doing … was insane. Certainly unfair. But when had a Takisian ever been concerned with fair play? No sense approaching committed Barnett delegates. That would only arouse suspicion, and the affects might not last. But the uncommitteds … if they had a change of heart after some fervent politicking from Devaughn and the oh-so-persuasive and the oh-so-charismatic Dr. Tachyon.… And Michael Dukakis? He could afford to lose a few. His only hope now was to be selected as the vice-presidential candidate.…

  It just seemed to sail down out of nowhere and into her hand. She barely had to move or will and she was holding it. She walked down Harris studying it: a plastic J.J. Flash Flying Ace Glider, with holes carefully burned through its body and wings with a hot wire or rod. The face had been pen-blacked to oblivion with careful malice.

  A couple of little black kids were wandering past in the other direction, staring at all the funny people. “What’s you got there, lady?” asked the one in the Run DMC T-shirt.

  She looked at the thing in her hand without comprehension. “A fucking Flying Joker,” she said.

  The room wasn’t as nice as the one he’d had at the Marriott. There were old wooden blinds instead of curtains; the bedsprings creaked, and the pastel paint was peeling around the baseboards. The motel was forty-five minutes from downtown and he’d had to slip the desk clerk a fifty to get the room. Still, Spector felt much more co
mfortable here. There was an all-night liquor store down the block and a burger place across the street. He was finishing up a greasy doublemeat-doublecheese and trying to come up with some kind of believable lies to tell Tony. He still had his Marriott room key, so getting into the hotel would be no trouble.

  They’d talk about old times mostly. At least, that was what he hoped. His life before drawing the black queen was a hopeless blur. He didn’t think about his past much, and considered the future only slightly more. Mostly he thought about death. Not because he liked it, but it was hard not to. Death put everything else into insignificant perspective. If all the politicians and lawyers and corporate hotshots understood the reaper the way he did, they’d never bother to get out of bed in the morning.

  Spector picked up the phone, an old beige rotary model, and dialed the Marriott. After about twenty rings there was an answer. “Marriott Marquis.” The voice was curt and whiny. Probably the little jerkoff who’d been at the desk when he checked in.

  “Yes. Any messages for 1031?”

  They put him on hold without so much as a “one moment” or “let me check.” Spector drummed his fingertips on his thigh. They were probably making him wait on purpose. Worse, they might have figured out what happened to Baird and were tracing the call. That would take at least a minute or two. He’d wait a few more seconds.

  “Yes. Mr. Calderone says to meet him in the lobby at six this evening.” Click.

  “Fuck you, too,” Spector said, rapping the mouthpiece on the edge of the nightstand. He tossed the receiver into the cradle and headed for the bathroom. Why was it ritzy hotels hired assholes? The little clerk was moving up the list. His chances of living out the week were even slimmer than Hartmann’s.

  3:00 P.M.

  The CNN glass press booth hung like a vision of heaven at the top of the center. Tachyon labored wearily up the steps. Mentally preparing for another round of talks with journalists. A strata of society that shared a good many traits with carrion birds, he decided bitterly. Must have a story. The more tragic, horrifying, terrifying the better. Hartmann’s star, so bright at the beginning of this long campaign trail, seems to be sadly dimming in the white-hot fires of this Democratic convention. The unctuous commentator mouthing the silly metaphor. But it seemed to be becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  The door to the press booth opened. Fleur emerged. The stairway suddenly became unbearably claustrophobic. They were going to meet face-to-face. It was unavoidable. Tachyon steeled himself. Suddenly Fleur’s high heel slipped from beneath her, and she pitched headlong down the stairs. Calf muscles burning with strain, Tach vaulted up the steps, and caught her just before her dark head connected with the concrete. Her chignon had jerked loose, and strands of sable hair hung about her face. He righted her, and a few more hairpins fell pattering to the floor.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, looking about in confusion. “I could have been killed.” His arms were still around her. She glanced down, raised hesitant eyes to his face. “You’re still holding me.”

  “My apologies.” He began to withdraw. She laid her hand on his shoulder holding him in place. Tachyon felt her thigh, firm beneath the silk skirt, weld itself to his. His cock stirred.

  “You could have let me fall. It would have been natural after … after the way I’ve treated you.”

  “I would never let you … fall.”

  Fingers, as soft as butterflies, explored his face, traced across his lips. “You saved my life.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  Fleur pressed her body to his. Tach groaned softly as his penis stiffened to rigid and aching attention. Suddenly she cupped his face between her hands and kissed him. All vestiges of control vanished. Tongue probing deep into her mouth, he gripped her buttocks. Their panting breaths set an odd counterpoint to the roll call droning up from the floor. Tach’s hands played frenziedly across her body.

  Fleur broke away. Struggled to rebutton her blouse. Tachyon gripped her trembling fingers.

  “Here, let me.”

  “Take me to your room.”

  He looked up, fingers frozen on a button. She lifted his hand, bit down hard on a forefinger.

  Help me.

  A cry from his soul? Or a random thought from Fleur? He ignored the plaintive voice.

  “We can’t be seen leaving together,” whispered Fleur.

  He handed her his room key. “I’ll follow … soon.”

  Jack’s phone bleeped again. It had been ringing all through his lunch at the Bello Mondo and the other patrons were beginning to get annoyed. The Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, in fact, was scowling at him from the next table. Jack offered Jim Wright of Texas an apologetic look, opened his case, and took out the handset.

  “This is Tachyon. I am calling from the press room. I must leave, and I require someone here with your kind of charisma.”

  “What for, exactly?”

  “I will inform you when you arrive. Please hurry.”

  “Hey. Don’t give me this Takisian-royalty-in-a-hurry crap.” But Tachyon had hung up.

  Jack contemplated grinding the telephone to dust.

  Instead he finished his last bite of dessert, overpaid, and fed the maître d’ his C-note.

  The distance from the Marriott to the Convention Center was precisely one unfiltered Camel in length. Jack’s neck prickled. He and Fleur van Renssaeler jostled in a door leading to the Convention Center. Psychos—his third wife had been a real nutcase—made him nervous. Despite the way Fleur spooked him, Jack gave her a jaunty wave and grin, received a close-lipped smile in return. He saw a Marriott room key in her hand and figured she was heading to the hotel to give some reporter a blow job straight from God, maybe convert him to Barnett’s cause.

  Tachyon was waiting just beneath the ABC skybox, wearing his cavalier coat with the slashes and turnbacks, the riding breeches and boots. The alien’s face was strained. When he saw Jack, the violet eyes flashed.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Hi, to you, too.”

  “It’s imperative that you speak to the press immediately.” Waving his plumed hat under Jack’s nose.

  “Fine.” Jack tipped another cigarette out of the pack. “What am I supposed to be talking to them about?”

  “This ‘Anyone-but-Hartmann’ business. If the media keeps harping on this, it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Okay.” Jack grinned as he lit the Camel. “Is Connie Chung in there? And if she’s married, is her husband here?”

  “This is no time for—” Tachyon began waving the hat again, then abruptly swallowed his words. Color blossomed on his cheeks. At the sight, a cold, despairing certainty settled into Jack’s mind.

  “It’s Fleur, right? That was your hotel key she waved at me.”

  “She did not wave—” The alien swallowed his words again. Tachyon drew himself up to his full princely height—with the heels, about eight inches below Jack’s—and glared with furious violet eyes. “I will not have my personal life questioned. This is no affair of yours.”

  “Darn right it’s no affair of mine. I turned her down a few days ago.”

  Tachyon showed his teeth. “How dare you! Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

  Jack took a measured breath of smoke. “I’m talking to someone who’s being led around by his dick, which is pretty funny, considering how long it’s been since you last got it up.”

  Tachyon flushed red with anger. Cold fear touched Jack’s spine at the thought that he’d gone too far, that this was someone who had been raised to kill at the slightest insult, who had, in fact, once sworn to murder Jack and might decide that he’d ignored the vow for too long …

  But instead Tachyon just brushed past him, heading out of the Convention Center. Jack followed, his long legs keeping pace easily with the alien’s quick step.

  “Tach, okay, that wasn’t fair,” he said. “The point is,
Fleur did make a pass at me the other day.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Tachyon spoke through clenched teeth, his boot heels tapping rapidly on the concrete.

  “She’s trying to embarrass the campaign. You know how much the whole Sara Morgenstern business cost us. There might be half-a-dozen network cameramen behind a two-way mirror watching you when you screw.”

  “In … my … bedroom?” Tachyon’s measured answer came out as a half shriek.

  “It’s still a setup. Will you listen?” He grabbed Tachyon’s arm. “It’s a fucking—”

  “Leave me alone!” Wrenching his arm free.

  “She’s a psycho. She’s not her mother. Understand? She’s not Blythe.”

  Tachyon stopped walking and spun to face Jack. His face was drained of color. “Do not,” he said, “let that name past your lips ever again. You have not earned that right.”

  Jack stared at him, his annoyance turning to boiling anger. “This is for your own good,” he said. He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and picked Tachyon up and put him under his arm. He started walking for the Omni Hotel while the alien kicked and struggled.

  “Blood and bone! Let me down!”

  “I’m going to find a cold shower and put you in it,” Jack said. “Consider it your penance for throwing that bomb at me in Paris. If you want to get laid after that, I know a Miss Peachtree who will be glad—”

  Jack stopped moving. He put Tachyon down. He marched up the ramp to the stair leading to the skybox. He dropped the cigarette to the concrete floor, ground it under his heel, and stepped in.

  Then he blinked, took a long breath, and tried not to collapse. Tachyon had just shredded his mind like a newspaper torn by a high wind.

  Reporters waited, scattered around tables and looking bored. Some were staring at him. Summoning nerve from someplace he didn’t know he had, Jack gave them a smile and wave, and stepped forward to say his piece.

  4:00 P.M.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “No.” Her arms were folded protectively across her breasts.

  He hefted the bottle. Alcohol was sometimes an inhibitor. He quickly replaced the bottle. Hugged his elbows. Stared at the floor. They were separated by feet. It might have been light-years. Never had he felt so gauche.