Ace In The Hole

"BURNING SKY!"

"An appropriate exclamation," said Polyakov with a humorless smile. "You Takisians, always so apt."

Tachyon scrubbed a handkerchief across his streaming face, but the tears continued to flow. He gulped down a sob. The Russian frowned down at him. "What the devil is wrong with you?"

"You couldn't just tell me you are an ace?" cried Tach bitterly.

Polyakov shrugged. Rose and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Tachyon's fingers were closed frenziedly about the sodden mass of his own.

"What the hell is the matter? I gave you only the merest lick of my fire."

"And I am carrying the wild card so your little lick could have triggered the virus."

Tachyon found himself crushed into a burly embrace. He fought free, gave his nose a hard blow. "So today is a day for secrets, is it not?"

"How long?"

"A year."

"If I had known-"

"I know. I know, you would never have scared me out of a thousand years of life with that little demonstration." His clothes smelled rankly of sweat and fear. Tachyon began to strip. "So now I know why you are so interested in this convention."

"It goes beyond the fact that I am a wild card," grunted Polyakov. "I am a Russian."

"Yes," Tach threw over his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom. "I know." The thunder of the water drowned out Polyakov's words. "WHAT?"

Grumbling, Polyakov followed him into the bathroom, lowered the toilet cover, and sat. From behind the shrouding curtain Tach heard the clink of metal on glass.

"What are you drinking?"

"What do you think?"

"I'll take one, too."

"It's eight in the morning."

"So we'll go to hell drunk and together." Tach accepted the glass, allowed the water to beat on his shoulders while he sipped at the vodka. "You drink too much."

"We both drink too much."

"True."

"There's an ace at this convention."

"There are a shitload of aces at this convention."

"A secret ace."

"Yes, he's sitting on my toilet." Tachyon stuck his head around the curtain. "How long is this going to take? Can't you be a little less cautious and trust me just a little?"

Polyakov sighed heavily, stared down at his hands as if counting the hairs on the back of fingers. "Hartmann is an ace." Tach stuck his head back through the shower curtain. "Nonsense."

"I tell you it is true."

"Proof?"

"Suspicions."

"Not good enough." Tach shut off the water, and thrust a hand through the curtain. "Towel." Polyakov dropped one over his arm.

Stepping from the shower, the alien studied his image in the mirror as he towel dried his shoulder-length red hair. Noted the scars on his left arm and hand where the doctors had repaired the bones crushed in an eleventh-hour rescue of Angelface. The puckered scar on his thigh-legacy of a terrorist's bullet in Paris. The long scar on the right bicepmemory of a duel with his cousin. "Living takes a hell of a toll, doesn't it?"

"Just how old are you?" the Russian asked curiously. "Adjusting for Earth's rotational period; eighty-nine, ninety. Somewhere in there."

"I was young when I met you."

"Yes."

"Now I am old and fat and in the grip of a terrible fear. You can so easily establish if my fears are real or mere delusions. Probe Hartmann, read him, then act."

"Gregg Hartmann is my friend. I don't probe my friends. I don't even probe you."

"I give you permission to do so. If it will help to convince you.

"

"Ideal, you must be in terror."

"I am. Hartmann is… evil."

"Odd word from an old material dialectician like yourself."

"Nevertheless, it applies."

Tachyon shook his head, walked into the bedroom, rummaged in a drawer for fresh underwear. He could sense George behind him, a portly irritating presence. "I don't believe you."

"No, you don't want to believe me. A fundamental difference. How much do you know of Hartmann's early life? His passage through this world has left a trail of mysterious deaths and shattered lives. His high school football coach, his college roommate-"

"So he's had the misfortune to be on the periphery of violent events. That does not make him an ace. Or would you have him damned by association?"

"And what of a politician who is kidnapped twice, and escapes both times under mysterious circumstances?"

"What's so mysterious? In Syria, Kahina turned upon her brother and stabbed him. In the resulting chaos we escaped. In Germany-"

"I was working with Kahina." "What!"

"When I first came to America. Gimli too, that poor fool. Now Gimli is dead, and Kahina has vanished, and I fear she too is dead. She came to America to expose Gregg Hartmann."

"So you say."

"Tachyon, I don't lie to you."

"No, you merely tell me only as much as suits you."

"Gimli suspected, and now he's dead."

"Oh, so now Gregg is responsible for Typhoid Croyd? Gimli died from that virus, not from Gregg Hartmann."

"And Kahina?"

"Show me a body. Show me the proof."

"What about Germany?"

"What about it?"

"One- of the GRU's top operatives was in charge of that operation, and he ran like a raw recruit. He was manipulated, I tell you!"

"You tell me! You tell me? You tell me nothing! Just slurs and innuendos. Nothing to back up this fantastic allegation."

"What does it cost you to probe him? Read him and prove me wrong." Tachyon's mouth tightened mulishly.

"You're afraid. You're afraid that what I'm telling you is true. This is not Takisian honor and reticence. This is cowardice. "

"There are very few men who would be permitted to say that to me, and live." Tachyon shrugged on his shirt, and resumed in a dry, almost lecturing, tone, "Being an ace you must have considered the political climate. Supposing for the moment that you are correct and Gregg Hartmann is a secret ace so what? There is nothing very suspicious in a man with political aspirations hiding his wild card. This is not France, where it is the height of chic to be an ace. You damn him for keeping a secret that you have kept all your life?"

"He's a killer, Tachyon, I know it. That's why he is hiding."

"The hounds are gathering, George. They're snapping at our heels. Soon they will want to taste blood. Gregg Hartmann is our only hope to keep the hate at bay. If we smear Hartmann, we open the way for Barnett and the crazies. You'll be all right. You can hide behind that bland, ordinary face. But what of the others? What of my bastard stepchildren waiting in the park, their deformities obvious for all the world to see? What do I tell them? That the man who has protected and defended them for twenty years is evil and must be destroyed because he might be an ace, and because he kept it secret?"

Tachyon's eyes widened as he considered a new possibility. "My god, this might be why you were sent here. To bring down the candidate that the Kremlin fears. A Hartmann presidency-"

"What is this nonsense? Have you taken to reading sensational spy fiction? I fled for my life. Even the Kremlin thinks I'm dead."

"How can I believe you? Why should I trust you?"

"Only you can answer those questions. Nothing I say or do will convince you. I'll say only one thing-I would hope that this past year would have at least demonstrated that I am not your enemy."

Polyakov walked to the door. "That's it?"

"It seems pointless to continue a circular argument."

"You waltz in here, and calmly announce that Gregg Hartmann is a killer ace, and then waltz back out again?"

"I've given you all that I have. Now it's up to you, Dancer." He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then added, "But if you don't act, be warned-I shall."

After Jack crossed the street, he realized he didn't have to deal with the July heat any longer: he could get back to the Marriott by way of Peachtree Mall. The conditioned air was a relief. He rode the escalator to the top level and came face to face with a group of Charismatic Catholics for Barnett, all walking circles, counting their rosaries, and chanting the Hail Mary while wearing posterboards with their candidate's picture. STOP WILD CARD VIOLENCE, some signs said. This week's cover slogan for Put wild cards in concentration camps.

Weird, Jack thought. Barnett professed the Roman Church a tool of Satan, and here they were praying for him.

He passed by. Sweat cooled on his forehead. Two black kids loaded with Jesse Jackson buttons were throwing large foam-plastic gliders back and forth. Delegates in silly hats mobbed the restaurants, looking for breakfast.

One of the gliders fluttered toward Jack, heading for the pavement. Jack grinned and snatched it from the air before it hit the floor. He cocked his arm to throw it back to its owner, and then stopped and stared at the glider in surprise.

The foam glider had been created in the image of Peregrine, her wings outspread to almost two feet. The famous bosom, which Jack had gazed at on many memorable occasions aboard the Stacked Deck, was rendered in loving detail. Only the tail structure, presumably required for proper aerodynamics, was nonanatomical. Small letters were printed on the tail: Flying Ace Gliders (R), they said, collect them all.

Jack wondered if Peregrine was getting any royalties. The two kids stood about fifteen yards away, waiting for their glider. Jack cocked his hand back and threw, the same motion he'd used playing football years ago, and added just a touch of his power. A mild golden aura flickered from his body. The glider fired in a fast, straight line, the length of the mall, buzzing like an insect in flight.

The kids stared, first at the glider, then at Jack, then at the glider again. Then they took o$; running after their Peregrine.

People were staring. Jack felt a delirious rise of optimism. Maybe returning to public life wasn't going to be so bad. He laughed and loped up the mall again.

On the way he met the glider-seller, his samples assembled on a folding table in front of him. Jack recognized J. J. Flash and Jetboy's JB-I. There was one Frisbee-like object obviously intended as the Turtle.

Jack showed his ID and room key to the police cordoning off the Marriott and walked into the cavernous venturi shape of the atrium. The Marriott was Hartmann headquarters, and almost all the people in sight were wearing Hartmann regalia. Flying Ace gliders, thrown from the balconies above, swooped in daring loops above their heads. Off out of sight, someone was playing charge on a portable organ.

Jack stepped to the desk to see if anyone had left any messages. Charles Devaughn wanted him to call; so did one of the Georgia starlets. Which one, Jack tried to recall, was Bobbie? The stacked redhead? Or was it the blonde chain gang woman who spent half the party talking about her expensive dental implants and demonstrating her anticellulite exercises?

There wasn't likely to be any time at this convention for a personal life anyway.

Jack put the messages in his pocket and turned away from the desk. A Flying Ace glider spun into the ground before his feet. He automatically reached down to pick it up, saw the molded white scarf, flyer's helmet, leather jacket.

Jack stared for a long moment, the glider hanging from his hand. Hello, Earl, he thought.

For a while he'd thought it would really be okay. He'd reached a truce with Tachyon; maybe Gregg Hartmann could talk old diehards like Hiram Worchester around. Maybe everyone else had forgotten the Four Aces, and HUAC, and Jack's betrayal; maybe he could step out in public and do something worthwhile without messing up, without being haunted by reminders of the past.

Better straighten up, farm boy. Funny how after all these years he still knew exactly what Earl Sanderson would say. Jack rose to his full height and looked over the heads of the crowd, wondering if someone out there had meant the glider to fall where it did, wanted to remind him that everything hadn't been forgotten. Jack must have looked ridiculous enough, heaven knows, hunched over the glider with his guilty conscience welling out of his face, and the effigy of his friend and victim dangling from his paw.

Bye, Earl, he thought. Take care, now.

He cocked his arm back and fired. The glider whirred as it rose into the atrium, rising forever until it was lost to sight.

Gregg could feel the hunger.

It had nothing to do with politics or the expectation that by the end of this week he could well be the Democratic nominee.

Coming down in the Marriott elevator for his breakfast meeting with Jack Braun and Hiram Worchester, the hunger burned in his gut like glowing phosphorus-a pulsing violence that a few croissants and coffee would never touch.

The hunger was Puppetman's, and it demanded pain. His face must have reflected some of the inner struggle. His aide, Amy Sorenson, leaned toward him and touched his shoulder hesitantly. "Sir…?"

Billy Ray, assigned to Hartmann's personal security for the convention, glanced over the shoulder of his spotless white Carnifex uniform from the front of the elevator. Gregg forced a yawn and a professional smile. "Just tired, Amy. That's all. It's been a long campaign and, by god, it'll be a longer week. Give me a few cups of coffee and I'll be fine. Ready to face the hordes." Amy grinned; Billy Ray returned his solemn attention to the door, ignoring the view of the Marriott Marquis's immense and surreal lobby.

"Ellen wasn't having trouble, was she?"

"No, no." Gregg watched the lobby floor rise toward them. A large foam glider spiraled lazily past them toward the crowded restaurant below. As the elevator passed it in midflight, Gregg could see that the body was that of a woman with bird-shaped wings. The features looked suspiciously like Peregrine's. Now that he'd noticed the first one, Gregg saw that there were several more of the gliders performing acrobatics above the lobby. "She hasn't had morning sickness since the first trimester. We're both fine. Just tired."

"You've never told me-do you want a boy or a girl?"

"It doesn't matter. As long as it's healthy."

The floor indicators flickered down. Gregg's ears popped with the pressure change. Inside, Puppetman snarled. You're not fine. Give me a few cups of coffee.. The presence radiated disgust. Do you know how long I've been waiting? Do you know how long it's been?

Be quiet. We can't do anything about it now.

Then it had better be soon. Soon, do you hear me, Greggie?

Gregg forced the power back into its mental cage. The effort cost him. Puppetman struggled, its anger a rasping, continual presence. Shaking the bars.

Lately, it was always shaking the bars.

The problem had only begun in the last few months. At first it was rare, something he thought of as some strange fluke, a quirk attributed to the weariness of a long campaign. But it had happened more and more often.

A mental wall would slam up between Puppetman and his victims. just as he was about to feed on those dark and violent emotions, he would be cut off, pushed back by some outside force. Puppetman would howl as the link to the puppet was severed.

He'd prayed that problem would disappear; instead, it worsened. For the past two weeks the block had reared up every time Puppetman had tried to feed. Lately, he'd begun to sense a mocking laughter riding with the interference, a faint, whispering voice just on the edge of recognition.

The power inside Gregg was becoming desperate and uncontrollable. And Gregg was afraid the internal struggle was beginning to show.

Make me wait much longer and I'll show you the real puppet. I'll give you a goddamn graphic demonstration of which one of us is in control.

The power slipped loose of Gregg's hold for a moment, defiant. Gregg willed it to be silent, but still it screamed at him as he set the mental bars around it once more. Puppetman gibbered and spat. You're the fucking puppet, do you hear! I'll make you crawl! Understand? You need it as much as I do. If I die, you die. You have nothing without me.

Gregg was sweating with the effort, but he won. He closed his eyes and leaned back as the elevator lurched to a halt at the ground floor. Puppetman lapsed into brooding silence inside; Amy watched him with concern.

The doors opened, and the coolness and noise of the lobby hit them. Some of the crowd in the lobby, most of them sporting Hartmann buttons and hats, had spotted him-there were screams and a rush toward him. Waiting Secret Service men stepped smoothly between them, cutting off the supporters; Gregg waved and smiled. They began to chant: "Hartmann! Hartmann!" The lobby echoed with it.

Amy shook her head. "What a circus, huh?"

Ray ushered Gregg toward the private room where he was to meet Hiram and Braun, and then took his station just outside. Gregg went in. The air-conditioning here was more oppressive than the lobby's. He shivered and rubbed his arms. Only Jack-Golden Boy-was present, a handsome, tall man who looked as if he hadn't aged a day in the four decades since the heyday of the Four Aces, still the image of the movie star he'd once been. He rose to greet Gregg. Braun seemed subdued, which didn't surprise Gregg. He hadn't figured Jack would much care for the attempt at reconciliation. Frankly, he didn't give a shit whether Jack was happy with it or notGregg was going to make the two of them bury this particular hatchet; publicly, at least.

"Senator, Amy," Braun said. His eyes lingered a bit too long on Amy. Which also hardly surprised Gregg; he knew they were having an affair. Puppetman knew lots of hidden things. "Good morning. How's Ellen?"

"Getting bigger each day," Gregg replied. "And tired a lot. Like all of us."

"I know what you mean. Ready to begin the good fight?"

"I thought we'd already begun, Jack," Gregg commented. His voice sounded glum and irritable against Braun's heartiness. He made himself smile.

Braun glanced at Gregg strangely, but he laughed. "I suppose so. You know Californians: it's bad enough everyone was a little jet-lagged. I was up most of the night with your uncommitted superdelegates. I think we have things worked out. Listen, I thought you said Worchester was going to be here."

"You haven't seen him this morning?" Gregg frowned, irritated.

"Not yet. And it isn't exactly like him to pass up a meal-though he'll probably bring his own in since I hear even the Bello Mondo isn't up to his standards." A grimace and shrug. "Hey, I know the reason you wanted this breakfast meeting was to get the two of us to patch up our differences, and I appreciate the sentiment-I'd like it, too. But maybe Hiram isn't quite as forgiving as you think."

"I don't believe that, Jack."

Jack gave Gregg a lopsided, bitter smile. "He's never served you a plate of thirty silver dimes, either."

"Amy…"Gregg began.

"Already gone, sir," his aide said. "I'll find him or starve trying. Save me a roll, okay?"

As she left the room, Gregg turned to Braun. "Okay, we'll go ahead and eat. If Hiram shows, he shows." The words snapped out more sharply than Gregg intended. He was in no mood for games, not with Puppetman slamming against his restraints. Braun was looking at him strangely again, but before the ace could say anything, Gregg shook his head and waved the anger away. "God, that sounded horrible, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm just not myself this morning. Point me in the direction of the coffeepot, would you?"

Strange, Jack thought. He'd never felt uncomfortable in the presence of Gregg Hartmann before. Yet here he was, face to face with the man he hoped would be the next president, the man who had talked him into coming out of his public isolation and joining his crusade for office, and something was missing..

I'm tired, thought Jack. So is Gregg. No one can be charismatic every minute.

He poured himself coffee. The cup rattled in the saucerhangover, maybe, or nerves. If it hadn't been Gregg asking for this meeting, he wouldn't have come. "I saw a car full of Nazis outside," he said. "Nazis in uniforms."

"The Klan are here, too." Hartmann shook his head. "There's potential for a serious confrontation. The crackpot right likes that kind of thing-it gives them publicity."

"Lucky thing the Turtle is here."

"Yes." Hartmann gave him a look. "You've never met the Turtle, have you?"

Jack held up a hand. "Please." He smiled to cover his nervousness. "Let's keep it down to one reconciliation a day, okay?"

Hartmann knit his brows. "Is there a problem between you?"

Jack shrugged. "Not that I know of. I just… sort of assume there would be."

Hartmann stepped toward Jack, put a hand on his shoulder. There was concern in his eyes.

"You assume too much, Jack. You think everyone's got a chip on his shoulder about your past, and it's just not true. You've got to let down the defenses, let people get to know you."

Jack stared at the coffee swirling in his cup and thought about Earl Sanderson spiraling to a crash landing at his feet. "Okay, Gregg," he said, "I'll try."

"You're important to this campaign, Jack. You're head of the California delegation. I wouldn't have chosen you if you weren't suited for the job."

"You could get some heat on account of me. I've told you that. "

"You're important, Jack. You're a symbol of something bad that happened a long time ago, something we're trying to prevent from happening again. The other Four Aces were victims, but so were you. They paid with prison or exile or their lives, but you…" Hartmann gave his boyish, halfapologetic smile. "Maybe you paid with your self-respect. Who's to say that isn't worth more in the long run? Their agony ended, but yours hasn't. I think it all balanced long ago, that everyone's paid too much." He squeezed Jack's shoulder. "We need you. You're important to us. I'm glad you're aboard."

Jack stared at Hartmann, cynicism ringing in his mind like funeral bells. Was Gregg serious-lives and sanity and prison terms balanced against his own worthless loss of dignity?

Hartmann had to be laughing behind that sincere expression, making fun of him.

Jack shook his head. From the time he'd met him aboard the Stacked Deck, Hartmann had been a man who could make Jack feel good about himself. What he was saying now wasn't substantially different from what he'd said to Jack before. But now the message seemed the reflex posturing of a politician, not the message of a concerned friend.

"Is something wrong, Gregg?" Jack blurted.

Hartmann dropped his hand, turned partly away. "Sorry," he said. "Things have been a little strained."

"You need some rest."

"Guess we all do." Hartmann cleared his throat. "Charles said you did some good work for us last night."

"I got some congressmen drunk and laid, is all." Hartmann gave a laugh. "Charles has given me their names and room numbers. I'll be phoning them as soon as we've finished breakfast. Perhaps-"

The door opened. Jack jumped, spilling coffee. He turned and saw, not Hiram Worchester, but Amy. Embarrassed at his nervousness, Jack reached for a napkin.

"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I just got a phone call from Furs in Jokertown. It's a potential problem. Chrysalis has just been found dead in New York. Ace abilities were involved."

Surprise stumbled into Jack's mind. He'd spent months with Chrysalis aboard the Stacked Deck, and although he'd never been comfortable around her-the organs and muscle visible through the transparent flesh reminded Jack of too many things he'd seen in World War II and Korea he'd developed an abstract admiration for the way Chrysalis handled her deformity, the cultured accent, cigarette holder, antique playing cards, and dry style.

Hartmann's face went rigid. When the candidate spoke, his voice was strained. "Any more details?"

"Beaten to death, looks like." Amy pursed her lips. "Barnett can make some propaganda out of this-it's more `wild card violence' that will have to be restrained."

"I knew her well," Hartmann said tightly. The mask-like face seemed unusual in a man who was so open around his friends. Jack wondered if there were aspects to this death he hadn't known about.

"Tony Calderone checked in late last night," Amy said. "Maybe you should get him preparing a statement in case Barnett tries to use this."

Hartmann gave a sigh. "Yes. I'll have to do that." He turned to Jack. "Jack, I'm afraid I'm going to have to abandon you."

"Should I leave?"

Concern entered Hartmann's eyes again as he looked at Jack. "I would appreciate it very much if you'd stay. You and Hiram Worchester are two of my most visible supporters-if you could settle your differences, it would mean a lot to me." Jack thought for a moment, wondering if Judas and St. Paul ever settled their differences.

He sighed. It had to happen sooner or later. "I don't have a problem with Worchester, Gregg. He's just got one with me."

Hartmann smiled. "Good," he said. He raised a hand and squeezed Jack's shoulder again.

The room seemed very empty after Hartmann and Amy left. Jack watched breakfast turn cold on the buffet.

Earl's glider crashed again and again in his mind.