Ace In The Hole

7:00 P.M.

Spector thumbed the plastic SPECIAL VISITORS badge on his lapel and laughed quietly to himself. Earlier in the week, he would have killed until he was waist deep in bodies to get one of these. Now, he didn't need it anymore. Life was fucking like that.

Hartmann's floor was surprisingly quiet. He'd expected wall-to-wall aides and Secret Service. Spector pulled out Tony's room key and counted off the room numbers in his head. He figured it was time to get out of the country. Australia, maybe, or some other place where they spoke something that resembled English. He stopped in front of Tony's door and inserted the key. As he pushed in, he felt someone pulling it open from the other side.

Spector took a step back. A joker wearing Secret Service gear looked at his visitor's badge and motioned him in. The joker was tall and wiry, and gave Spector the once over when he stepped inside. His scaly, prominent brow ridge and some ugly lumps on his forehead were the only visible signs of his jokerhood. Spector figured there were more, but he wasn't interested enough to ask.

"Who are you?" the joker asked in a perfunctory manner. "I'm a friend of Tony Calderone. He sent me over to pick up his writing materials." Spector pointed to a black briefcase on the bed. "I think that's it."

"I see. Would you put your hands on your head, sir?" Spector did as he was told and the joker frisked him quickly, but thoroughly. Spector tensed. If this guy looked at him too long, he might get recognized. He was sure the feds had a file on him with Demise in big letters at the top. "This is news to me, so I'm going to check with Calderone." The joker moved to the phone, flipped through a notebook to find the number, and punched it in. He was careful not to turn his back, but showed no sign of placing Spector's face. "Tony Calderone, please." Short pause. "Tony. This is Colin. There's a guy here who says he's picking up your writing equipment. You did. Describe him for me. Okay. Yeah. I'm sorry, we just forgot." Colin hung up. "You Jim?"

"Yeah. Are you done with me?"

The joker raised a hand to signal silence and put a finger to his earpiece. "Yeah, I'm still in Calderone's room. There's a guy here who's going to deliver his writing kit to the hospital."

"Why didn't someone remind me I'd forgotten?" Long pause. "No, the hotel people say no one stayed in Baird's room again last night. Okay, I'll check it again later, but I think we're wasting our time. Talk to you later." The joker sighed and headed for the door. "Let yourself out," he said to Spector. "Don't forget to tell Tony I'm sorry."

Spector nodded stiffly and didn't breathe until the door closed. They knew about Baird. Not that it mattered now, with him leaving town. Still, the sooner he got the fuck out of here, the happier he'd be. He sat on the bed and flipped open the briefcase. Little computer and compact disc player, plenty of other crap, just like Tony'd said. He snapped it shut and headed to the bathroom for a drink of water. The city was baking again today, with no relief in sight. He set the briefcase down next to the toilet and was reaching for the tap when he heard the voices.

Whoever they were, neither one of them sounded very happy. Spector put his ear to the wall. His stomach turned over when he figured out who was arguing. Tachyon. He'd recognize that fucker's prissy little voice anywhere. And he was chewing on Hartmann. Spector sat down on the toilet and hoped no one came into the room while he was listening in.

The dizzying drop to the Marriott lobby lay before him. Tach noticed in a detached and clinical sort of way that his hands were gripping the balustrade so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

Just climb out there. Past the safety wires. Let go. A long fall into peace. A chance to finally rest. To not be responsible. Tears burned his already aching eyes, but the despair passed quickly. He was a prince of the house Ilkazam, and his line did not breed cowards.

Squaring his shoulders he faced the door of Hartmann's suite. Perhaps as Hiram believes there is some logical explanation.

But Digger Jay claimed witnessed Hartmann watching with pleasure as a hunchback ace with hands like buzz saws eviscerated Kahina in the office of the Crystal Palace.

And last night that same hunchback had attempted to kill Sara and Jack.

He killed Andi, he killed Chrysalis, and now he's going to kill me

… me.. me… ME.

The rap of his knuckles on the door sounded loud in the hall. From below the sound of merrymaking drifted upward. Gregg was going over the top, top, top!

And I'm out of time, time, time.

Carnifex opened the door. He seemed shrunken somehow. Misery lurked in his green eyes.

"I need to see the senator, Billy."

The ace indicated with his free hand. Tachyon entered the suite. Gregg was seated in a chair by the window rolling a drink between his palms.

"Celebrating?"

The senator glanced up in surprise. "Well, not just yet, but soon I expect. Where have you been? I sent Jack to look for you. I wanted you to visit Ellen with me."

Tachyon stared at that smooth face. The laugh lines about the eyes. The sensitive mouth that had tightened in anger as the senator had been confronted with barbarism in Syria and South Africa. Tachyon's power quivered like a live thing, but he held it in check, terrified to penetrate the mind behind that familiar, friendly face.

Tachyon stirred slightly. His continued silence seemed to be angering Hartmann.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I'm about to get the nomination."

"Send Ray away."

"What?"

"Send him away."

Hartmann rolled expressive eyes toward the ace. Clearly a humor him expression. The agent nodded and left.

"Now Tachy, what's this all about? Drink?" He hefted the bottle.

"You are an ace."

Gregg barked out a laugh. "Really, Doctor, you've been working too hard-"

"I tested the blood on the jacket you wore in Syria." For a brief instant the man went rigid. But the face he presented to Tachyon was bland.

"I deny it. Categorically."

"It is written in your blood."

"The wrong jacket. The wrong blood. A plot by my enemies."

"The wrong blood." Tachyon rolled the words about his mouth, tasting them. "Yes, you did deal in the wrong blood when you had Chrysalis killed."

"I had nothing to do with Chrysalis's death."

"You left too many loose ends, Senator. Digger, Sara. It's unraveling, all of it."

"No one will ever believe them. Or you."

"I have the blood test."

"And you'll never publish it." Hartmann grinned, reading the answer in Tachyon's face. "Even assuming it were true, which it's not." He refilled his glass, and lounged back on the sofa exuding confidence.

"A touch of my power, and you'll lie naked before me," warned Tachyon. "I can see you. Read the truth of what you are."

Naked panic twisted the politician's face. He leaped up from the sofa, bourbon darkening the carpet as the glass fell from his hand. "This is insane, you've lost your mind. Ray. RAY!"

Tachyon hit him. Hard. Two swift body blows to Hartmann's gut. Anger gripped the alien like a physical force. He was trembling with rage and betrayal. Gregg tottered backward, clutching his stomach, mouth working as he gasped for breath.

Tachyon's power lanced out, gripped the human, brought him upright. He could see the terror in the human's eyes as he stood helpless in the grip of the Takisian's mental imperative.

He stepped into a place of putrescence. Slitted eyes burning with rage and hatred regarded him. A thing beyond all imaginings. Puppetman. It howled and fought, twisting as Tachyon, with the precision of a surgeon, laid back the years like flaps of rotting skin. Read a tale of death and pain and terror.

The frenzied greedy feeding as the baby and Gimli fell away into darkness. Sucking at Ellen's pain and fear. Rising lust as a joker, freed of all restraint, fell upon a woman and brutally raped her. A blood feast in Berlin as the maddened and unpredictable puppet Mackie Messer shredded his former companions. Not-wet and salty. Mackie's emotions as he had sucked on Gregg's cock. Bribing and then murdering the technician who had blood tested him. The crunch of bone as Roger Pellman slammed a rock into Andrea Whitman's face. Tasty. Tasty. An orgasmic sensation. Bloated and distended the thing fed upon the helpless, the lonely, the afraid.

So strong were the emotions and memories that Tachyon felt an answering heat in his own groin even while his stomach heaved with disgust. He screamed in fury that this thing, this monster could draw upon his own darkest nature.

Puppetman laughed, a swirling, nauseous mass of violet and red. Tachyon formed himself into a silver and crystal blade. Flew at the monster. Beat it back into its den. Threw up bars of flame. It was the most terrifying and powerful construct the Takisian had ever encountered.

Withdrawing into his own body Tachyon became aware of the stench of his own sweat, the violent trembling that shook his body. Hartmann sprawled on the sofa.

"You will never be president. Never!"

Gregg rose slowly, the action filled with menace. Loomed over the tiny alien. "You can't stop me. How can you stop me… us, little man?"

The Takisian retort rose without thought, but Tachyon suppressed it before it could pass his teeth, Kill you. No, the last thing he could do. Sudden death would lead to autopsy, and autopsy to… ruin.

Spinning on his heel he left the room.

Spector pushed his fist against the wall until he could hear his knuckles begin to crack. He gripped the knob to the adjoining door and tried to turn it. No luck. He took a deep breath, picked up the briefcase, and walked back into the bedroom. He set the briefcase down on the bed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Hartmann was playing them all for suckers. Tony had gotten the shit kicked out of him for nothing. The jokers in the park were supporting a fraud. The fucker was an ace, and a crazy one at that. He was a damned kingpin, just like the Astronomer, manipulating people into doing his dirty work while keeping his own hands clean. Spector gritted his teeth. He'd fallen for Hartmann's line, too. And he didn't like getting caught with his pants down. Rage boiled the pain up inside him. He had to do something, what he'd been hired to do in the first place.

Tachyon would probably be useless. He was so choked on his own fucking sense of self-importance that he'd figure withdrawing his support was enough. What a pathetic, little jerk. Treating the symptom instead of the disease, as usual, and leaving someone else to do the really hard work. Spector was too pissed off to tell how long it had been since Tachyon left the senator's room, but he could still hear Hartmann moving around next door. Now was the time to nail him, before any more Secret Service showed up. He straightened the shoulders on his jacket, stepped out into the hall, and paced over to Hartmann's door. His hand was on the knob when he heard someone call out.

"Who are you?"

Spector pulled his hand away from Hartmann's door like he'd taken an electric shock and turned to the sound of the voice. It was Jack Braun, and the Golden Boy looked suspicious and unhappy. Spector didn't think, he ran. He could hear heavy footfalls as Braun came after him.

Spector sprinted down the hallway and yanked open the door to the stairwell. Something grabbed his forearm as he stepped through. A tall, blond Secret Service agent tried to spin him against the wall. Spector knocked off the man's glasses and locked eyes. Why wouldn't these Hitler youth refugees let him alone? Golden Boy came through the doorway just as the dead agent hit the floor.

Jack sat downstairs at Hartmann HQ and ate pizza, waiting for Tachyon to finish his meeting with Hartmann. The mood was generally jubilant. Hartmann was less than a hundred votes from the 2,082 necessary to win, and it looked as if all the efforts of a platoon of secret aces might not be able to stop his progress. Flying ace gliders soared across the room. Amy Sorenson was laughing as she chatted in the corner with Louis Manxman. Even Charles deVaughn was occasionally allowing moments of cheerfulness to break through his scowling self-involvement.

Still, Jack worried. He needed to talk to Tachyon. Barnett was going to have to resort to desperate measures, and Hartmann's guardians needed to be prepared. He finished his pizza and headed across the room to where Amy was talking to the journalist. "Excuse me," he said, "but has the senator finished with Tachyon yet?"

Amy looked up at him with a relaxed smile. "Tachyon? He might still be up there. Don't know."

"Thanks." Amy seemed surprised at his curtness. Jack turned and trotted toward the door, passing Billy Ray, who, napkin in hand, was trying to get tomato sauce and cheese off his white suit.

Jack took the elevator up to Hartmann's floor. An undistinguished-looking man with an acne-scarred face was trying the knob to Hartmann's door. Alarms began going off in Jack's mind. He started moving faster.

"Hey," Jack said. "Who are you?"

The man looked up in surprise, then bolted.

Jack's own surprise nearly halted him in his tracks before he remembered he ought to chase. He dug his toes into the carpet and charged.

This one, he thought, wasn't going to get away. The man was heading for the only stairway on this corridor, and Alex James was posted there. Between Alex and Jack, this character was not about to make his escape.

The intruder ran full tilt into the metal stairwell door, throwing it open with a booming crash that echoed even in the silent hallway. The door slammed shut. Over the whimper of wind in his ears, Jack heard the sounds of a scuffle.

Then he heard a scream.

The marrow-chilling wail, the ultimate sound of terror and despair, turned Jack's nerves to fire.

The scream bubbled away.

Jack lunged forward like a base runner diving for second and hit the door bar with both hands. The door thundered open, then slammed to a stop: Jack bounced headfirst off the metal as it stopped his dive. He growled as he ripped the door off its hinges, his power bathing the hallway in lucid golden light.

Alex James was lying on the landing, his face still set in a rictus of his final shriek, hand on the butt of his pistol. A chill danced up Jack's spine as he saw the face, and for the first time he realized the assassin might be a wild card.

Too bad for him, Jack thought.

No playing with this one. He wasn't letting this assassin get away like the hunchback.

Footsteps rattled on the stairway as the assassin spun around the metal guardrail at the bottom of the first flight. Jack caught a glimpse of a pale, scarred face and wild hair as the intruder ran down steps four or five at a time. Jack didn't bother to follow him down the stairs-instead he just vaulted the rail and dropped straight to the bottom of the second flight.

The assassin was right under him as he dropped-Jack kicked out as he came down, and his lashing foot caught the assassin in the side, hurling him off a wall and down onto the landing. Jack dropped to an easy crouch and spun to face the assassin. The man, face drawn with shock and pain, was picking himself up off the stained concrete.

Triumph roared like a hot wind through Jack's heart. Jack jumped in front of the assassin, planted both feet, and shot out a punch.

The man saw it coming and tried to jerk his head out of the way, but Jack's punch caught him in the side of the jaw. A spray of blood spattered the rough concrete wall. The assassin bounced off two different walls and pitched full length down the third flight of stairs, landing on his side. Jack's feet broke traction and shot backward. His upper body fell forward onto the palms of his hands.

Jack picked himself up, heart hammering, and shook blood from his knuckles. The assassin wasn't moving. Jack stepped cautiously toward the killer.

Something crunched under one foot. Jack lifted his heel and saw it was one of the assassin's teeth.

Streams of blood poured down the stairs from the killer's mutilated face. The crushed jaw was hanging by a strip of skin. Jack winced. He really needed time to get used to the results of serious violence, and he hadn't had it. He hadn't been in a fight since the Stacked Deck put down in Paris.

He knelt by the man and looked at the blood-spattered face. Maybe he'd seen the man before.

The killer's eyes opened and stared into Jack's.

Death reached out from the man's eyes and seized Jack by the heart.

There was blood everywhere, and all of it was his. Spector grabbed his dislocated jaw, took several deep breaths, and jammed it back up into the socket. He blinked away the tears, but not the searing pain. Spector stood slowly and leaned against the concrete wall.

Golden Boy wasn't moving and didn't seem to be breathing either. Spector hadn't really figured he could hurt Braun much less kill him, but was happy to be wrong. This was no time to be impressed with himself. He had to move. The fight had been quick, but noisy, and more Secret Service would show up any minute.

He slipped off his shoes with his free hand and started down the steps. One flight. Two flights. He wouldn't be far enough away until he lost count. They could test the blood from the landing and find out he was an ace. A killer ace. He pressed the edges of his torn cheek together with his thumb and forefinger. The flesh began to knit itself together. Was it ten flights now? How many floors would that be?

A door opened in the stairwell above him. Spector moved to the far wall and hugged it as he descended. He knew there was someone above him, looking up and down for a hand on the rail or someone looking back. He wasn't going to make that mistake. But what was his next move? He still had the key to 1031. It was risky, but he couldn't think of anything else.

His sides were killing him. Golden Boy had broken a couple of his ribs, too. Spector was breathing okay, though; at least his lungs hadn't been punctured.

He stopped at the landing on the tenth floor and took off his coat. His jaw had stayed connected to his skull, that was something, but he wouldn't be talking for a while. Spector used his coat lining to wipe the blood from his face and neck. Some of it was already crusting over and he had to scrape it off with his fingernails.

There were voices and rapid footfalls from above. Spector couldn't tell how far away they were or even if they were headed down. He was a dead duck here, though. That much was a sure thing. He spit into his palms and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to get any remaining bloodstains off. His jaw still felt like there was a circus strongman trying to pull it off.

Spector slipped his shoes back on and opened the door, then stepped out into the hall and made sure it shut quietly behind him. He folded his coat over his arm so that no blood was showing and walked slowly toward the open-air atrium. The lobby area was more crowded than the hallway, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He coughed as a bit of dried blood came loose in the back of his throat. A man at the railing turned and gave him a glance, then looked back up into the airshaft.

"Golden Boy," the man said, drunkenly, and pointed with an unsteady hand. Spector stared straight ahead and quickened his pace. He caught the movement of the corner of his eye. A Golden Boy glider spiraled slowly toward the ground floor. Spector knew it would hurt to smile, so he didn't try. He'd killed Braun and the Astronomer. Who else in the world could have done that? If he could get close enough to Hartmann it wouldn't matter that the senator was an ace. Spector would take him out, too.

He turned down his hallway and walked to the door of 1031. He'd gotten away again. It was almost like somebody was on his side. Maybe God was trying to make up for all those years of shit. Keep it up, Spector thought. He slipped his key into the slot, waited for the green light, and went in.

"The airline ticket was made out in the name George Kerby. "

Ackroyd's voice went very shrill on the final two words. Tachyon pulled his computer key out of the door, and pocketed it. As he stepped in, he heard Hiram rumble, "Tickets in the name of a ghost."

From Ackroyd. "Yeah, a ghost. A specter." "James Spector!" Hiram said.

"And both George Kerbys came back from the dead," Jay said. "She hired that son of a bitch Demise."

Their backs were to him. They hadn't noticed his quiet entrance.

"We have to let them know," Hiram said. He crossed the room, picked up the phone, and punched for the operator. "Connect me to the Secret Service."

At last they noticed him. Hiram staring at him with dread, Ackroyd with shuttered, snake-like eyes.

"It… it's not true, is it?" Hiram said desperately. "Tell me that it's all some hideous mistake, Gregg can't be." Pity filled him for the loss of dreams, and shattering of faith. "Hiram," Tach said softly. "My poor, poor Hiram. I saw his mind. I touched the Puppetman." The horror of it returned again, and Tachyon shuddered. "It is a thousand times worse than we could ever have imagined."

The strength drained from his legs, and Tach sat on the carpet, buried his head in his hands, and began to weep. Through his misery he heard Hiram say, "God forgive me."

What has He to forgive you for? I should have seen. Twenty years! I should have realized. I should have known! Wracking sobs made his chest ache. Tachyon realized he was spiraling into hysterics. Grimly he reached for control, and the sobs began to subside.

"What are we going to do?" asked Hiram. "Blow the whistle," Jay said.

Tachyon bounded to his feet. "No!" he said. "Are you mad, Ackroyd? The public must never learn the truth."

"Hartmann's a monster," Jay objected.

"No one knows that better than I," said Tachyon. "I swam in the sewer of his mind. I felt the vileness that lives inside him, the Puppetman. It touched me. You can't imagine what that was like."

"I'm not a telepath," Jay said. "So sue me. I'm still not going to help you whitewash Hartmann."

"You do not understand," Tachyon said. "For close to two years Leo Barnett has been filling the public ear with dire warnings about wild card violence, inflaming their fears and their mistrust of aces. Now you propose we tell them that he was right all along, that a monstrous secret ace has indeed subverted their government. How do you think they will react?"

Jay shrugged. "Okay, so Barnett gets elected, big deal. So we have a right-wing dork in the White House for four years. We managed to survive Reagan for eight."

Tachyon was stunned by this stupidity. "You cannot know the half of what I found in Hartmann's mind. The murders, the rapes, the atrocities, and him always at the center of his web, the Puppetman pulling his strings. I warn you, if the full story ever becomes known, the public revulsion will touch off a reign of terror that will make the persecutions of the fifties look like nothing." The alien gesticulated wildly. "He killed his own unborn child, and feasted on the pain and terror of its death. And his puppets… aces, jokers, politicians, religious leaders, police, anyone foolish enough to touch him. If their names become known-"

"Tachyon," Hiram Worchester interrupted. His voice was low, but anguish sobbed in every syllable.

Tachyon glanced guiltily at Hiram.

"Tell me," Hiram said. "These… puppets. Was… was I… one of

… " He couldn't finish, choking on the words. Tachyon nodded. A small quick nod. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He turned away.

Behind him Tach heard Hiram say, "In a grotesque way, it's almost funny," but he did not laugh. "Jay, he's right. This must be our secret."

When he turned around Tach found Ackroyd looking from Hiram to himself, and back again. The detective's eyes were bitter. "Do what you want," he said, "just don't expect me to vote for the fucker. Even if I was registered."

Suddenly Tach realized this was too important. He could not rely upon only their unsupported word. "We must take a vow." Tachyon said. "A solemn oath, to do everything in our power to stop Hartmann, and to take this secret to our graves."

"Oh, gimme a break," Jay groaned.

"Hiram, that glass," the alien snapped. Hiram handed him the half-finished drink, and Tachyon upended the contents on the carpet. He bent, slid the long knife out of his bootsheath, and held it up in front of the fascinated and aghast humans. "We must pledge by blood and bone," he said.

His grip on the hilt was slick with sweat, but he slashed hard across his left wrist. He was pleased that his only reaction was a soft almost inaudible intake of breath. Perhaps Earth had not softened him as much as he feared. Tach held the wound over the glass until there was an inch of blood on the bottom, then bound his wrist in a handkerchief and passed the knife to Ackroyd.

The detective just looked at it. "You got to be kidding." 'No. '

"How about I just piss in it instead?" Jay suggested. "The blood is the bond."

Hiram stepped forward. "I'll do it," he said, taking the knife. He shrugged out of his white linen coat, rolled up his sleeve, and made the cut. The pain made him inhale sharply, but his hand did not hesitate.

"So deep," Tachyon muttered. The cut was deep enough to be dangerous. Was Hiram so devastated by the betrayal that suicide seemed an option? Hiram winced and held his hand above the glass. The red line crept upwards.

Tachyon bent a stern eye on Ackroyd.

Jay sighed deeply. "So if you two are Huck and Tom, I guess that makes me Nigger Jim," he said. "Remind me to have my head examined when all of this is over." He took the knife, and yelped as the blade bit into the skin.

Accepting the snifter from the sweating Jay, Tachyon swirled the glass to mix the bloods one with the other, then lifted it above his head and chanted in Takisian. "By Blood and Bone, I so vow," he finished. He threw back his head, and drained a third of the glass in one long gulp.

Tachyon thrust the glass at Hiram. Both the humans looked nauseated.

"By Blood and Bone," Hiram intoned, and took his ritual swallow.

"Am I allowed to add some tabasco, maybe a little vodka?" Jay asked when Hiram gave him what was left.

Ackroyd's wisecracks were beginning to wear a little thin. "You are not," said Tachyon stiffly.

"Pity," Jay said. "Always liked Bloody Marys." He lifted the glass, muttered, "Blood and Bone," and drank the last of the blood. "Yum," he said afterwards.

"It is done," Tachyon said. "Now, we must make plans."

"I'm going back to the Omni," Hiram announced. "I was among Gregg's earliest supporters, and I daresay I am not without influence in the New York delegation. I may be able to have some impact. We must deny him the nomination, at all costs. "

"Agreed," said Tachyon.

"I wish I knew more about Dukakis… " Hiram began. "Not Dukakis," the alien said. "Jesse Jackson. He has been courting us all along. I'll speak to him." He clasped hands with Hiram. "We can do it, my friend."

"Real good," Jay said. "So Greggie doesn't get to be president. Big deal. What about all his victims? Kahina, Chrysalis, the rest of them."

Tachyon glanced over. "Not Chrysalis," he said, not believing he had forgotten to tell them this.

"What?" Jay croaked.

"He threatened Chrysalis, yes," the alien said. "He made her and Digger watch while his creature tortured and killed Kahina, but he never acted on that threat. When he heard of her death on Monday morning, he was as surprised as anyone."

"No fucking way," Jay said. "You got it wrong."

Nostrils tightening in fury Tachyon pulled himself up to his full height. "I am a Psi Lord of Takis, trained by the finest mentats of House Ilkazam," he said. "His mind was mine. I did not get it wrong."

"He sent Mackie after Digger!" Jay argued.

"And he commanded Oddity to retrieve the incriminating jacket, and destroy it. Most assuredly. After he heard that Chrysalis was dead, he took steps to protect himself. But he had no hand in ordering that death." Tachyon put a hand on Jay's shoulder. "I'm sorry, my friend."

"Then who the fuck did it?" Jay demanded.

"We have no time to argue about this now," Hiram said impatiently. "The woman's dead, nothing will-"

"Quiet," Jay said urgently.

A newsflash flickered across the screen. ". latest tragedy to strike the convention," a solemn announcer was saying. "Senator Hartmann is unharmed, repeat, unharmed, but reliable reports indicate that the ace assassin took the lives of two other men in his attempt to reach the senator. We are still waiting for final confirmation, but unofficial sources indicate that the killer's victims were Alex James, a Secret Service agent assigned to Senator Hartmann-" A photograph of the dead man appeared on the screen, above the announcer's shoulder. "-and the chairman of Hartmann's California delegation, ace Jack Braun. The controversial Braun, who starred in feature films and TV's Tarzan, was better known as Golden Boy. He was considered by some to be the strongest man in the world. Braun first came to public attention-… "

Jack's picture appeared on screen as the announcer went on and on. He was in his old fatigues, smiling crookedly, surrounded by a golden glow. He looked young, alive, invincible.

"Oh, Jack," Tachyon said. For thirty years he had prayed for Jack's death. Even plotted it in angry alcoholic dreams. Now it had come and another little part of Tisianne died.

"He can't be dead," Hiram said furiously. "I just saved his damnable life last night!" The television set floated off the carpet. Scraped against the ceiling. "He cannot be dead!"

Hiram insisted, and all of a sudden the TV was falling. It hit the floor, and the picture tube exploded.

"He will not have died in vain," Tachyon said. Did it mean anything? He didn't think so. He just spoke to assure himself that he was still alive. Tach touched Hiram on the arm. "Come," he said.

The pain was greater than anything Jack had ever imagined. It burned through him from head to toe, searing every nerve, every muscle, every square millimeter of skin. His brain had gone nova. His heart was an exploding turbopump. His eyes felt as if they were melting. Every cell in his body was on fire, every strand of DNA in revolt against its inherited code.

The black queen, Jack realized. Somehow he'd just drawn the black queen.

He could feel his body shutting down in protest against the agony. Bit by bit, organ by organ, like someone throwing all the circuit breakers in a big building.

The pain ended.

He saw himself crumpled on the landing, his face set in an expression of dumb shock. The assassin, barely able to move, managed to get his jacket off and wrap it around his head, stopping the flow of blood from his mangled jaw. "Hey," Jack said. He tried to grab the guy. "Stop!" Somehow the assassin crawled away.

"Yo. Farm boy."

Jack looked up in surprise at the sound of Earl Sanderson's voice. Earl looked younger than when Jack had seen him last, the young athlete just graduated from Rutgers, and was dressed in his old Army Air Corps fatigues with the insignia taken off, his leather flying jacket with the patch of the 332nd Fighter Group, the black beret, and long silk scarf. The Black Eagle scholar, athlete, civil rights attorney, ace… and maybe Jack's best friend.

"Hi, Earl," Jack said.

"Man, you're slow," Earl said. "We're supposed to be flying out of here by now."

"I can't fly, Earl. I'm not like you."

"Slow, farm boy." Earl was grinning. "Slow."

Jack was mildly surprised when they both began to fly. The Marriott Marquis was gone and they were in the sky, heading toward the sun. The sun began to get brighter and brighter.

"Hey, Earl," Jack said. "What's going on here?"

"You'll work it out sooner or later, farm boy."

The sun was almost blinding, the yellow light turning whiter and whiter, all color leached away. Jack saw other people there, guys from the 5th Division and Korea, his parents, his older brother. The were all flying, rising into the sky. Blythe van Renssaeler neared him and gave him a shy smile.

"Damn. He's asystolic," she said. "Flat line."

"Huh?" Jack looked at her.

Archibald Holmes strode confidently toward him, dressed in a white linen suit. He lit a cigarette and put it in its holder.

"Hi, Mr. Holmes."

"Okay," Holmes said. "I got the ET down his throat. Where's the bag?"

"Why does he keep glowing on and off like that?" Blythe asked.

"Can't help it, really," Jack shrugged.

"Start 02," said Holmes. "I'm going to shoot some epinephrine down the endotrachial tube. I'll want a milligram of atropine in a minute."

Jack looked around and saw that Earl was holding hands with a long-legged woman with blonde hair tousled over one eye and broad, padded shoulders.

"You must be Lena Goldoni," he said. "I've seen your pictures."

"We've got fibrillation," said Lena.

"Slow," Earl said, shaking his head. "Farm boys are so slow." His scarf was rippling in an invisible wind.

Jack realized he was here with almost all the old Four Aces crowd, everyone except David Harstein, and he began to wonder if he should apologize for what he'd done to them, how he'd destroyed them all. But they all seemed so happy to see him he decided not to mention it.

More people were clustering around him. Some of them he'd forgotten he'd known. Even Chester the Chimp, who'd played opposite Jack in Tarzan of the Apes, was there, riding on someone's shoulders.

"Give him three-hundred joules," said the ape. "Stop CPR. Clear! Clear, Goddamn it! Get your hand off that metal rail, will you, Lois?"

The light was getting brighter and brighter. Circling around them, the rays seemed almost palpable, like the walls of a tunnel. Jack felt his speed increase as he shot toward the source of the light. He began to hear people singing, a million voices raised in joy.

The light grew nearer, not just white light but the White Light. Jack's heart lifted. He began to understand what it was that Earl wanted him to know.

"Three-hundred-sixty!" shrieked the ape. "Clear! Clear!" Jack stretched out his arms and prepared to dive into the heart of the White Light. Suddenly he seemed to hesitate in his progress. He was slowing down. Desperately he tried to speed up. He longed to fly farther.

He realized the White Light was looking at him.

"What a weenie," the White Light said. "Get that weenie outta here."

Jack coughed and opened his eyes and saw people crouched over him, men and women he recognized from Gregg Hartmann's Secret Service detail, working with emergency medical equipment that was part of their standard issue. He felt an ache in his solar plexus and he couldn't stop coughing. Jack looked up over their heads, saw blood-flecked concrete walls and steep stair risers.

"Normal sinus rhythm," one said. "We got pulse. We got pressure." He spoke in Archibald Holmes's voice. A couple of the others cheered.

A tall brown-haired woman was speaking into a walkietalkie. "Ambulance on its way." The voice was Blythe's.

"I blew it," Jack tried to say. He couldn't talk over the endotrachial tube they'd slid down his throat. "I blew it again." He was too weak too feel much emotion over it.

The ambulance crew arrived and carried him away.