Ace In The Hole

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 dav'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. Gregg 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 stonefaced 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 wellequipped 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 L 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 I 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 liarsmen 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 wine glasses 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."