Ace In The Hole

7:00 P.M.

He woke suddenly. Filled with a sense of total well-being. Or perhaps filled was not the proper description. Empty, floating, freed at last from two years of pressure and anxiety.

Tach kicked free of the tangled sheets. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the room. Realized with a thrill of disappointment that the bed was empty. Sat up, then relaxed back against the pillows at the flush of the toilet.

Fleur padded in, breasts swinging. She realized he was awake, and her arms crossed over her chest.

"Don't, I like to look at you."

"You're a heathen."

"Yes. You're a courtesan."

She lifted the drapes, and looked out. "That's not very nice."

"It was meant to be a compliment. Why haven't you married?"

"How do you know I haven't?" She leaned back against the window, one buttock cocked up on the narrow sill.

"I don't read married off you."

She stiffened. "Are you reading my mind?"

"No."

"You tried, the second time we did it."

"I would have tried the first time, but I was too busy trying to make certain that I stayed… er… firm."

"Don't read my mind!"

"All right. It makes sex better for me, but all right."

"I think it's horrible that you can violate people that way."

"Fleur, may I remind you that I didn't read your mind. I sensed your opposition, and I withdrew. I'm a very wellmannered person, not to mention charming and handsome and witty…" There was no lightening of her somber expression, and he trailed away into embarrassed silence. He fumbled his flask off the bedside table, and took a swig. "Your mother wanted so much for you. Husband, children, home, happiness."

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Why not?"

"It's old history." She slid into the bed, her hand reaching for his cock. "I want you in bed with me, not with her."

Spector loosened his belt a notch. He'd had a salad and lamb stew. Spezzatino de Montone Tony had called it, sampling a bite to make sure it was up to par. Tony had eaten a chicken-and-almond dish with buttered rice on the side. They'd split a strudel with custard for dessert, and that had done it for Spector. He wasn't used to eating this much and could practically feel the food piling up at the back of his throat.

Tony sighed. "Did I tell you?"

"Just as good as advertised." Spector drained what was left of the wine in his glass.

"We've been so busy eating that I haven't had a chance to ask you who you're lobbying for."

Spector tensed. So far, they'd talked about the old neighborhood, girls, basketball, what had happened to people. Tony had been his only good friend during his school years. It wasn't that people hated Spector, they just didn't notice him. Tony was Mr. Charisma. They were unlikely friends, but close all the same. Tony's question reminded him that he was here to kill Hartmann. It was an unavoidable fact. "Well, let's just say my employers don't share all the same views as your senator." Spector didn't want to lie, but he sure as hell didn't want to tell the truth either. Better to compromise.

Tony nodded and rounded up a few stray crumbs of strudel with his fork. "You don't want to talk about it, that's fine. You got any feelings about the wild card victims, I mean personally?"

"It's a tough break." Spector knew that as well as anyone, having drawn the black queen himself. Only Tachyon had been stupid enough to bring him back. "But there's lots of tough breaks. Some people just get a few more than others."

"Don't you think jokers are getting kicked around, though?" Tony was looking hard at Spector. He had a stake in this, somehow. Something that went beyond political attitude.

"Sure. But what are you going to do about it." Spector picked up the bottle of Pinot Nero and poured himself another glass.

" Make sure their rights are protected, just like any other American citizen. That's what I want. That's why I'm working for Hartmann." Tony sat silently for a moment. "Don't think that's too much to ask, do you?"

Spector shook his head. "No. I've been around a lot of jokers. But it's different with them. Blacks, Italians, whoever else, they all still look like people. It's not their own fault, but plenty of jokers look like they should be in a zoo. Most people react with their guts, not their brains." Spector knew, he'd always gone with his instincts. If he hadn't gotten the virus himself, he'd probably hate the jokers like the rest.

Tony tossed his napkin on the table and signalled the waiter to bring the bill. "You got time to take a little ride with me?"

"Sure," Spector said, downing his wine. "What have you got in mind?"

"Just going to visit some friends of mine. Good friends. I'd like you to meet them." Tony smiled again. Spector couldn't say no.

"Maybe after we're done, you can introduce me to your boss. I'd like to meet him." Spector was uncomfortable, and it wasn't entirelv due to his bloated stomach.

"We might just be able to do that," Tony said. "But first things first."

Right, Spector thought, first things first.

All his old skills had returned. His aspect was truly upon him. Tachyon grinned down at his penis thrusting aggressively from the copper hairs of his brush. Laughing, he dove between her legs, nipping at her thighs, licking, teasing. Only one thing remained. To join completely with her. To join with her mind. He would do it when they climaxed, he decided. That would forever put the terror of Roulette behind him. Wriggling up her body, he sucked in one dusky nipple. Penetrated her.

Her thoughts were sharp, as jagged as glass. "You look just like your mother, and she was a slut… slut… SLUT."

A hateful voice. He hadn't heard it in thirty-eight years. Even filtered through the layers of Fleur's memories, Henry van Renssaeler still had the power to disgust.

"You better prove how much you love me."

"I love you, Daddy. I love you."

The soft cadences of Leo Barnett.

"Open your heart to Jesus, and all your sins will be forgiven you."

The rest followed in swift, hurtful images. Fleur's realization of how he was using his power on the uncommitted delegates. The faked fall. The pretended passion. The disgust and dislocation as she tried to come to grips with the fact that she was in bed with her mother's lover. Even as she clutched at his sweat-slick body, she was pretending that he was Leo Barnett.

Fury took him, and Tachyon was closer to striking a woman than he had ever been in his life. He took his revenge by finishing the act, with her, slaking his body's desires with hired meat. When it was over, he rolled out of the bed, and gathering up her clothes, tossed them on top of her. She stared at him, alarm shadowing the brown eyes.

"Get out."

"You read my mind-"

"Yes. "

"You violated me."

"Yes."

She was scrabbling into her clothes, wadding up her hose, and cramming them into her purse, smoothing the tangled hair. Pausing at the door, she flung at him," I accomplished what I set out to do. I kept you away from the convention."

"And you deserve something for your trouble." Tachyon dug out a pair of twenties, and slapped them into her hand. "Jack was right. You're not your mother. You are a slut."

She slammed the door behind her.

The air-conditioning was icy on his bare skin. Tach poured himself a drink, and took several deep breaths trying to slow his racing heart. Then as he lifted the glass to his lips, the door hit the wall with a report like a firing pistol.

Brandy sloshed across his chest and belly. "Oh, Ideal!"

"Expecting someone?" remarked Polyakov dryly as he eyed Tachyon's erection.

But there was a narrowness to the eyes, a tension to the jaw that made Tachyon think that the Russian's mind was anywhere but on Tachyon's sex life.

"If you could return your brains from your secondary head to your primary head, may we discuss a very serious problem?"

"Very funny." Tach padded to the dresser, and poured a fresh drink. Blaise settled cross-legged on the bed, and stared down at his hands. George stood solid and lumpish in the center of the room. "So what is this great and serious problem?"

"We were arrested."

"WHAT!" Tach turned like a slow-coiling snake on Blaise. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he whined.

"Oh, no, just played master puppeteer with a joker, a Klansman, a neo-Nazi and a policeman," snapped Polyakov. Tach shook his head like a baffled pony. George continued grimly on, "You would think when he has a subtle and invisible power he would have the brains not to advertise when he is using it."

Something flickered between man and boy. Suspicious, Tach lanced out with his telepathy, but all he caught was the brittle edges of the passing thoughts. The flavor of conspiracy.

"They were all standing out there waving their dicks at each other. I was just giving them the opportunity to prove how tough they were. That stupid, ugly joker was trying to wimp out-"

"SHUT UP!" Even Tachyon jumped at the fury and command in the Russian's voice. Polyakov turned his back on the red-faced boy. "The preambulations of an adolescent, superpowered Caligula are not the problem. The problem is Henry Chaiken."

"Fascinating. And who by the Ideal is Henry Chaiken?"

"An AP reporter who used to be stationed overseas. He recognized me as Victor Demyenov, reporter for Tass."

"Blood and Ancestors." Tach's knees felt weak, and he felt for the edge of the bed, sat down hard.

"Naturally the police-"

Frustrated with the slow unraveling of the story, Tachyon snatched the memory from his grandson's mind.

The street flanking Piedmont Park. Glancing down to see the dusty footprints left by his tennis shoes on the hood of the car. The circle of sweating faces surrounding the little tableau. Mouths stretched with excitement, eyes glistening. Shrugging off George's clutching hands.

"Come on. Come on! Put your money down. Not on an ugly joker he's going to get creamed."

The cop giving a convulsive jerk as Blaise twitched the cord binding the human to the quarter-Takisian child.

"He's not going to help the joker. He hates them too. I know. I'm in his head."

"Soon after an army of police arrived, and Blaise discovered the limit to his power," continued Polyakov, not realizing that Tachyon had read it all.

A chill, like an icy finger, traced down his back as Tach considered that at the end Blaise had been controlling nine people. Tachyon's limit was three for full control, and that took a tremendous toll on mind and body. Nine. And he was only thirteen. And I've been training him. His eyes met the flat implacable gaze of the sullen boy.

"Chaiken was an interested spectator to all of this, and he found it interesting that my current identification did not match his memory of me. I gave them a story about changing my name as I changed my life, but if they are not complete fools they will check."

"Your papers?"

"Are very good, but a question to the wrong place. A photo shown to the wrong man…" Polyakov shrugged expressively.

"You have to get out of here. Out of the country. If you need money I'll give it to you-"

"No. I came here to do a thing. I will not leave."

"What about me!"

"You don't matter any more than I do. What I do I do out of a perhaps pathetic belief in an ideal. A familiar concept to you, Tachyon. You curse with it, believe in it. We're not so very different. We both have our honor. Unfortunately, it is always purchased with blood."

There was again that fleeting glance between the Russian and Blaise. Tachyon slipped beneath the teenager's imperfect shields.

"You may not use Blaise. I forbid it!"

An infinitesimal arch of the eyebrows. Polyakov's mouth twisted in a slight, bitter smile.

"I'll do whatever Uncle George wants," shrilled Blaise. "I will kill you first," said Tachyon, eyes locking with the Russian's.

"I'm not your enemy, Dancer. He is." A pudgy forefinger thrust at the ceiling, and the Hartmann suite seven floors above.