Aces Abroad wc-4

by George R. R. Martin

  "Even your own candidate?"

  "In a revolution sometimes sacrifice is necessary. But for your information, I have little loyalty to the Communist Party. They have betrayed the people, lost the will and the strength to make the difficult decisions. The mandate has passed to us."

  Tach rested his forehead on a hand. "Oh, please, don't blurt slogans at me. It's one of the most tiresome things about you people."

  "May I outline my plan?"

  "I don't see any way I can prevent you."

  "The security will undoubtedly be very tight."

  "Undoubtedly." Bonnell shot him a sharp glance at the irony. Tachyon gazed innocently back.

  "Rather than attempt to run this gauntlet with weapons of our own, we will use those already provided. You and Blaise will mind control as many guards as possible and have them rake the platform with automatic weapons fire. It should have the desired result."

  "Interesting, but what can you possibly gain by this?"

  "The destruction of France's ruling elite will throw the country into chaos. When that occurs, I won't need your esoteric powers. Guns and bombs will suffice. Sometimes the simplest things are often the best."

  "What a philosopher you are. Perhaps you should set yourself up as a guide to the young."

  "I already have. I'm Blaise's beloved Uncle Claude."

  "Well, this has of course been instructional, but I very much regret that I must refuse."

  "Not surprising. I had anticipated this. But consider, Doctor, I hold your grandson."

  "You won't harm him, he's too precious to you."

  "True. But my threat is not of death. If you refuse to accommodate me in this, I will be forced to have certain very unpleasant things done to you, being careful to ensure that you live. I will then disappear with Blaise. You might find it somewhat difficult to trace us when you are a bedridden cripple."

  He smiled in satisfaction at the look of horror on Tachyon's face. "Jean will escort you to your room now. There you can reflect upon my offer and, I'm certain, see your way clear to help me."

  "I doubt it," gritted Tachyon, regaining command of his voice, but it was hollow bravado, and Bonnell undoubtedly knew it.

  The "room" turned out to be the very cold and dank basement of the house. Hours later Blaise arrived with his dinner.

  "I have come to visit with you," he announced, and Tach sighed, again admiring and regretting Bonnell's cunning. The joker had obviously made a careful study of Tachyon, his attitudes and culture.

  He ate while Blaise, chin resting in his cupped hands, gazed thoughtfully at him.

  Tach set aside his fork. "You are very silent. I thought we were going to visit."

  "I don't know what to say to you. It's very strange."

  "What is?"

  "Finding out about you. Now I'm not so special anymore, which bothers me, but it's also good to know…" He considered.

  "That you're not alone," suggested Tach gently. "Yes, that's it."

  "Why do you help them?"

  "Because they are right. The old institutions must fall."

  "But people have died."

  "Yes," he agreed sunnily. "Doesn't that bother you?"

  "Oh, no. They were bourgeois capitalist pigs and deserved to die. Sometimes killing is the only way."

  "A very Takisian attitude."

  "You will help us, won't you? It will be fun."

  "Fun!"

  It's his upbringing, Tach consoled himself. Endow any child with this kind of unsupervised power and they would react the same.

  They talked. Tachyon pieced together a picture of unfettered freedom, virtually no formal schooling, the excitement of playing hide-and-seek with the authorities. More chilling was the realization that Blaise did not withdraw from his victims when they died. Rather he rode through the terror and pain of their final moment.

  There will be time to correct this, he promised himself. "So will you help?" Blaise asked, hopping down from the chair. "Uncle Claude said to be sure and ask you." Seconds stretched into minutes as he considered. The noble course would be to tell Bonnell to go to hell. He considered Bonnell's gently worded threats and shuddered. He had been bred and trained to seize the opportunity, to turn defeat into victory. He would trust to that. Surely they could not guard him as closely at the rally.

  "Tell Claude that I will help." An exuberant hug.

  Alone, Tachyon continued to reflect. He did have one other advantage. Jack… who would surely realize something had gone terribly wrong and alert the Sfirete. But his hope was founded on a man whose weakness was well known tohim, and his fears on a man who, despite his civilized exterior, possessed no humanity.

  Coming up on twenty-four hours since the little bastard had disappeared. Jack swung at the wall, pulled the punch just in time. Knocking out a wall at the Ritz wasn't going to help.

  Was Tachyon in trouble?

  Despite his promise, had he gone off with Bonnell? And did that necessarily mean trouble? Was it possible he was merely playing hooky with his grandkid?

  If he was out visiting the zoo or whatever and Jack alerted the Sfirete, and they found out about Blaise, Tachyon would never forgive him. It would be another betrayal. Maybe his last one. The Takisian would find a way to get even this time.

  But if he's really in trouble?

  A knock pulled him from his distracted thoughts. One of Hartmann's interchangeable aides stood in the hall.

  "Mr. Braun, the senator would like to invite you to join him at the debate tomorrow"

  "Debate? What debate?"

  "All one thousand and eleven"-a condescending little laugh-"or however many candidates there are in this crazy race, will be taking part in a round-robin debate in the Luxembourg Gardens. The senator would like as many of the tour as possible to be there. To show support for this great European democracy-such as it is. Mr. Braun… are you all right?"

  "Fine, yeah, I'm fine. You tell the senator I'll be there."

  "And Doctor Tachyon? The senator's very concerned by his continued absence."

  "I think I can safely promise the senator that the doctor will be there too."

  Closing the door, Jack quickly crossed to the phone and put in a call for Rochambeau. A probable terrorist attack on the candidates. No need to mention the child. Just an urgent need to call out the troops.

  And a long night of praying he had guessed correctly. That he had made the right choice.

  He should be sleeping, preparing mind and body for the morrow. His life and the future of his line depended upon his skill and speed and cunning.

  And on Jack Braun. Ironic that.

  If Jack had drawn the correct conclusion. If he had alerted the Sfirete. If there were sufficient officers. If Tachyon could stretch his talent beyond all limits and hold an unheard of number of minds.

  He sat up on the rickety cot and hugged his stomach. Sank back and tried to relax. But it was a night for memories. Faces out of the past. Blythe, David, Earl, Dani.

  I'm gambling my life and the life of my grandchild on the man who destroyed Blythe. Lovely.

  But the possibility of dying can act as a spur for selfexamination. Force a person to strip away the comforting, insulating little lies that buffer one from their most private guilts and regrets.

  "Then give me those names!"

  "All right… all right."

  The power-lancing out fragmenting her mind… her mind… her mind.

  But they wouldn't have known but for Jack. And she wouldn't have absorbed their minds but for Holmes, and she wouldn't have been there but for the paranoia of a nation.

  And no one would suffer had they not been born, thought Tach, quoting a favorite adage of his father's. Sometime one must stop excusing, accept responsibility for actions taken.

  Tisianne brunt Ts'ara, Jack Braun didn't destroy Blythe, you did.

  He flinched, prepared for it to hurt. Instead he felt better. Lighter, freer, at peace for the first time in so many, many years. He began to laugh, w
as not surprised when it turned to quiet tears.

  They lasted for some time. When the storm ended, he lay back, exhausted but calm. Ready for tomorrow. After which he would return home and make a home and raise his child. Calmly and a little regretfully he turned his back on the past.

  He was Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian, a prince of the House Ilkazam, and tomorrow his enemies would learn to their pain and regret what it meant to stand against him.

  Claude, Blaise, and a driver remained in a car almost a block from the gardens. Tachyon, linked through the barrel of a Beretta with a stone-faced Andrieux, hovered at the outskirts of an enormous crowd. Parisians were nothing if not enthusiastic about their politics. But spotted throughout this sea of humanity like an insidious infection were the other fifteen members of Bonnell's cell. Waiting. For blood to flow and nurture their violent dreams.

  On the stand, the candidates-all seven of them. About half the delegation seated in chairs directly in front of the bunting-hung platform. There was no way they would escape without injury if Tach should fail and the shooting begin. Jack came into view. Hands thrust deep into pants pockets, he paced and frowned out over the throng.

  Blaise was a rider in Tachyon's mind. Ready to sense the tiniest use of telepathy. His power might be slight, but he was sensitive enough to detect the shift in focus such mind communication required. His presence suited his grandsire just fine. It would make what was to come all the easier. Carefully Tachyon constructed a mind-scrim of the scene. A false picture to lull his grandchild. He hedged it around with shields, presented it to Blaise. Then from beneath its protective cover be reached out, touched Jack's mind. Don't jump, keep frowning.

  Where are you?

  Near gate, edge of trees. Got it.

  Surete?

  Everywhere. Terrorists? Likewise everywhere. How…!?

  They'll come to you. Wha…???

  Trust.

  He withdrew and carefully constructed a trap. It was similar to the link he enjoyed with Baby when the ship boosted and amplified his own natural powers to allow for transspace communication, but much, much stronger. Its teeth were very deep. What might it do to Blaise? No. There was no time for doubts.

  The mind snare snapped down. A mental scream of alarm from the boy. Desperate struggle, panting resignation. The rider had become the ridden.

  Tachyon joined Blaise's power to his. It was like a bar of white-hot light. Carefully he split it into strands. Each tendril snapped out like a burning whip. Settled on his captors. They became frozen statues.

  He was gasping with effort, sweat bursting from his forehead, running in rivulets into his eyes. He set them marching, a regiment of zombies. As Andrieux stepped from his side, Tachyon forced his hand to move, to close about the Beretta, to pull it from his slave's limp grasp.

  Braun was leaping about, gesticulating, summoning help with great arm sweeps.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  He had to hold them. All of them. If he failed… Blaise was struggling again. It was like being kicked over and over again in the gut. One thread snapped. To Claude Bonnell. With a cry Tachyon dropped the control, ran for the gate. Behind him there was the vicious snarl of an Uzi. Apparently one of his captives had tried to run and been cut down by the French security forces. Perhaps it had been Andrieux. More gunfire, punctuating screams. A torrent of people swept past, almost knocking him from his feet. He tightened his grip on the Beretta, pumped harder. Slid around the corner just as the dazed driver reached for the key. A blow from Tachyon's mind, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel, and the blare of the horn was added to the pandemonium.

  Bonnell struggled from the car, gripping Blaise by the wrist. He went lurching and stumbling for a narrow, deserted side street.

  Tach flew after them, caught Blaise by his free hand, and wrenched him free.

  "LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"

  Sharp teeth bit deep into his wrist. Tachyon silenced the boy with a crushing imperative. Supported the sleeping child with one arm'. He and Bonnell regarded one another over the limp figure.

  "Bravo, Doctor. You outfoxed me. But what a media event my trial will be."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Eh?"

  "I require a body. One infected with the wild card. Then the Surete will have their mysterious mentat ace and will look no further."

  "You can't be serious! You can't mean to kill me in cold blood." He read the answer in Tachyon's implacable lilac gaze. Bonnell tottered back, came up short against a wall, moistened his lips. "I treated you fairly, kindly. You took no hurt from me."

  "But others have not fared so well. You shouldn't have sent Blaise to me. He was quick to tell me of your other triumphs. An innocent banker, controlled by Blaise, sent into his bank carrying his own death. That bomb blast killed seventeen. Clearly a triumph."

  Bonnell's face shifted, took on the aspect of Thomas Tudbury, the Great and Powerful Turtle. "Please, I beg you. At least grant me the opportunity for a trial."

  "No," The features shifted again-Mark Meadows, Captain Trips blinked confusedly at the gun. "I think the outcome is fairly predictable." Danelle, but as she had been all those long years ago. "I merely hasten your execution."

  A final transformation. Shoulder-length sable hair cascading over the shoulders, long sooty lashes brushing at her cheeks, lifting to reveal eyes of a profound midnight blue. Blythe.

  "Tachy, please."

  "I'm sorry, but you're dead." And Tach shot him.

  "Ah, Doctor Tachyon." Franchot de Valmy rose from his desk, hand outstretched. "France owes you a great debt of gratitude. How can we ever repay you?"

  "By issuing me a passport and visa."

  "I'm afraid I don't understand. You of course-"

  "Not for me. For Blaise Jeannot Andrieux."

  De Valmy fiddled with a pen. "Why not merely apply?"

  "Because Francois Andrieux is currently in custody. Checks will be run, and I can't allow that."

  "Aren't you being a bit forthright with me?"

  "Not at all. I know what an expert you are on falsified documents." The Frenchman froze, then shifted slowly to the back of his chair. " I know you're not an ace, Monsieur de Valmy. I wonder, how would the French public react to news of such a cheat? It would cost you the election."

  De Valmy forced past stiff lips, "I am a very capable public servant. I can make a difference for France."

  "Yes, but none of that is half so alluring as a wild card."

  "What you're asking is impossible. What if it's traced to me? What if-" Tachyon reached for the phone. "What are you doing?"

  "Calling the press. I too can arrange press conferences at a moment's notice. One of the privileges of fame."

  "You'll get your documents."

  "Thank you."

  "I'll find out why you're doing this."

  Tachyon paused at the door, glanced back. "Then we'll each have a secret on the other, won't we?"

  The big plane was darkened for the late-night hop to London. The first-class section was deserted save for Tach, Jack, and Blaise, sleeping soundly in his grandfather's arms.

  There was something about the little tableau that warned everyone to stay well away.

  "How long are you gonna keep him under?" The single reading light pulled fire from the twin red heads.

  "Until we reach London."

  "Will he ever forgive you?"

  "He won't know"

  "About Bonnell maybe, but the rest he'll remember. You betrayed him."

  "Yes." It was scarcely audible over the rumble of the engines. "Jack?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I forgive you." Their eyes met.

  The human reached down, softly pushed back a lock of silky hair from the child's forehead. "Then I guess maybe there's hope for you too."

  LEGENDS

  Michael Cassutt

  I.

  The month of April brought little in the way of relief to Muscovites staggered by an unusually cold winter. Followin
g a brief flurry of southern breezes, which sent boys into the newly green football fields and encouraged pretty girls to discard their overcoats, the skies had darkened again, and a dreary, uninspired rain had begun to fall. To Polyakov the scene was autumnal and therefore entirely, appropriate. His masters, bending in the new breeze from the Kremlin, had decreed that this would be Polyakov's last Moscow spring. The younger, less-tainted Yurchenko would move up, and Polyakov would retire to a dacha far from Moscow.

  Just as well, Polyakov thought, since scientists were saying that weather patterns had changed because of the Siberian airbursts. There might never be a decent Moscow spring again.

  Nevertheless, even in its autumn clothes Moscow had the ability to inspire him: From this window he could see the cluster of trees where the Moscow River skirted Gorky Park, and beyond that, looking appropriately medieval in the mist, were the domes of St. Basil's and the Kremlin. In Polyakov's mind age equalled power, but then he was old.

  "You wanted to see me?" The voice interrupted his musings. A young major in the uniform of the Chief Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff-uncommonly known as the GRU-had entered. He was perhaps thirty-five, a bit old to still hold the rank of major, Polyakov thought, especially with the Hero of the Soviet Union medal. With his classic White Russian features and sandy hair, the man looked like one of those unlikely officers whose pictures appeared on the cover of Red Star every day.

  "Molniya." Polyakov elected to use the young officer's code name rather than Christian name and patronymic. Initial formality was one of the interrogator's tricks. He held out his hand. The major hesitated, then shook it. Polyakov was pleased to note that Molniya wore black rubber gloves. So far his information was correct. "Let's sit down."

  They faced each other across the polished wood of the conference table. Someone had thoughtfully provided water, which Polyakov indicated. "You have a very pleasant conference room here."

  "I'm sure it hardly compares with those at Dzerzhinsky Square," Molniya shot back with just the proper amount of insolence. Dzerzhinsky Square was the location of KGB headquarters.