Ace In The Hole

10:00 A.M.

Sara winced and let the newspaper fall into mud drenched by firehoses and churned by a thousand feet of various descriptions.

You're right, damn you, she thought, in case Tachyon happened to be listening in. He wouldn't, though that Takisian honor of his. That damned expedient Takisian honor.

He'd laid it right on the line, as straightforwardly as he'd laid her Friday night, and even less gently: You cannot unmask Hartmann. It would hand the election to Barnett on a platter. How many innocent joker lives are you willing to spend on your vengeance?

"None," she said.

A couple of joker faces looked at her with shellshock blankness. None of them recognized her; she had a leopard mask on today. It had been lying in a gutter on Peachtree. The riot hadn't mashed it beyond usefulness.

Something crunched beneath her foot. She kicked at it until a sign emerged from the mud, hand-lettered at the JADL headquarters tent for last night's demonstration. The message almost made her smile.

Judas Jack, 1950

Traitor Tach, I988

Two of A Kind

With Mackie dead she'd been able to return to her own room. She was dressed today in blue jeans and a loose pale-blue blouse. She let her Reeboks carry her past a CBS remote van, where an earnest young black stringer was talking into a yellow-foam phallus.

"Piedmont Park remains virtually deserted after a night of rioting in which three hundred jokers were arrested. Several dozen jokers wander, as if dazed, among the trampled ruins of the tent city; Atlanta Mayor Andrew Young has rescinded his order that any jokers found on the street should be arrested on sight, following a personal plea in the early hours of this morning by Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis. Debate still rages over Governor Harris's refusal to declare martial law… "

They were few enough, but they were in a sense her people. She walked among them for the last time. No joker would trust her again, and she had sworn on her soul never to reveal the secret that would vindicate her in their eyes. For their sake she had to let them hate her.

For my sake. Unless I never plan to pass another mirror with my eyes open.

Tom Brokaw spoke to her from a portable television resting on an upturned ice chest and being ignored by a listless black joker with glowing blue carbuncles covering his face and such of his body as his coveralls left bare.

". uneasy truce that prevails between a mixed force of police and aces and several hundred joker demonstrators outside the Blythe van Renssaeler Clinic.."

The camera cut to a sign supported either edge by six green sucker-tipped fingers: "The Knave of Hearts Beats Every Joker in the Deck." Then it panned to a joker Sara knew named Canker, for obvious reasons, with the beleaguered J-Town Clinic for backdrop.

"Aces are helping the pigs oppress jokers on this street," he told the camera, gesturing at the cordon that kept the protesters at bay. "An ace did Chrysalis and a joker stands to burn for it. It's us against them!"

Tachyon, Tachyon, did you know what you were sacrificing? She knew. That was one reason she was willing to burn her own career and reputation at his behest.

The other was that she had her vengeance, and nothing else mattered.

Puppetman was dead-that was what Hartmann called his power, Tachyon said. Demise had killed it, sucked it right out through Hartmann's eyes before: Mackie Messer decapitated him.

The evil wasn't dead; oh, no. No matter how much Gregg wept, how bitterly he protested his innocence. Puppetman had been the crystallization of Hartmann's lusts. Those lusts still lived.

But Gregg didn't have the ability to pull strings and make puppets dance to gratify his needs any more. That was what Demise had destroyed.

And Gregg would never have the balls to walk the night with a knife in his own hand.

Without his power, Gregg was trapped in hell. Sara no longer wished he'd die. Now she hoped he lived a long, long time.

She sat on an overturned trash can. Andi, she thought, this is vengeance, isn't it? You wouldn't want me to ruin the life of every wild card in America just to buy you a little more?

The spoiled little bitch probably would. But Andrea Whitman was dead now, too.

Sara shook out her winter-pale hair, smoothed it back from her face with her hands. A breeze blew across the park, almost cool. She lifted her head and looked out over the morning-after battlefield.

A black policeman rode around the outskirts of the park on a tall bay gelding. He watched her closely. A pig hunting more victims? A frightened man trying to do his job? It was a judgment call, and Sara Morgenstern was fresh out of judgments.

Victims.

Puppetman's strings were all cut. But Gregg Hartmann had one more victim left.

She stood up and left the park with a sense of purpose that tasted like an alien emotion to one who thought her purpose was all used up. She left the mask in a can that said Keep Atlanta Beautiful.

Tachyon closed the door to Gregg's suite behind him. Gregg looked up from the Samsonite suitcase he was packing. "Doctor," he said. "I'm surprised you came so quickly. Amy must have just called you a few minutes ago…"

"I suppose I felt I owed it to you." The alien was holding himself in stiffly, his chin cocked forward over a ruffled lace collar and a paisley, electric-blue silk shirt. Despite the pose,

Tachyon was obviously on the edge of exhaustion. His skin was too pale, the eyes too sunken and hollow, and Gregg noticed that he held the stump of his hand behind him. " I feel no guilt about what I did to you. I would do it again, gladly."

Gregg nodded. He closed the suitcase, latched it, locked it. "I'm picking up Ellen at the hospital in a few hours," he said conversationally. Setting the luggage down on the floor, he gestured silently to a chair.

Tachyon seated himself. The lilac gaze was utterly expressionless. "Well, let us play it-the final scene in this little drama. But quickly. There are other people I need to see."

Gregg tried to stare him down. It was difficult to hold the alien's intense, unblinking gaze. "You can't say anything, you know. You still can't."

Tachyon grimaced and his eyes darkened as if in implicit threat.

"No, you won't," Gregg said softly. "You tell the press what you know about me and you prove that Barnett was right all along. There was a secret ace with his hands on the strings of the government. The wild card virus is something to be feared. The nats do need to do something to protect themselves from us. You talk, Doctor, and all the old laws will seem like freedom. I know you. I've had twenty years to watch you and learn how you think and how you respond. No, you won't talk. After all, that's why you did what you did last night."

"Yes, you are quite correct." Tachyon sighed and pressed his stump to his chest as if it pained him. "What I did went against all my principles-some old ones, and some newfound ones. It was not something I did lightly or at whim. You are a murderer and you should pay." He shook his head in weary frustration. "And ships should be stars, but they're not, and nothing can ever make them so."

"What the hell is that-the Takisian version of spilt milk?"Gregg paced across the room, then whirled to face the alien. "Look, you've got to know one thing. I didn't do it,"

Gregg told him. "Puppetman did it. The wild card power. All of it was the wild card. Not me. You don't understand what it was like to have him inside. I had to feed him or he'd destroy me. I'd have given anything to have rid myself of him, and now I have. I can make a fresh start, I can begin again-"

"What!" Tachyon's roar interrupted.

"Yes. Puppetman's dead. Last night on the podium, Demise took him. Look inside me, Doctor, and tell me what you see. You didn't have to ruin me; the evil was already gone. By the time you took my mind, I was free." Gregg studied his hands. A deep sorrow welled up in him, and he looked at Tachyon with eyes that shimmered with moisture. "I would have made a fine president, Doctor. Maybe even a great one." Tachyon gazed back with unyielding steel in his gaze.

"Gregg, there is no Puppetman. There never was a Puppetman. There was only Gregg Hartmann and his weaknesses, a man who was touched by an alien virus and was provided with a power whereby he could feed the darkest corners of his soul. Your problem is not that you are a wild card, Gregg. Your problem is that you are a sadist. This feeble excuse of yours is almost classic guilt transference. You constructed a shadow personality so you could pretend that somehow Gregg was still clean and decent. That is a child's trick. That is a child's deception, and you are smarter than that. "

Tachyon's harsh words were like a slap. Gregg flushed, angry that Tachyon would not understand. It was so obvious; it seemed impossible that Tachyon could not tell the difference.

"But he's (lead," Gregg cried in desperation. "I'll prove it to you. Go on," Gregg insisted. "I'm asking you to. Look inside me and tell me what you see."

Tachyon sighed. He closed his eyes, opened them. He turned away from Gregg, pacing the room silently for a long minute and then coming to a halt near the windows. When he looked at Gregg again, it was with a strange sympathy.

"You see, I told you," Gregg said, almost laughing with relief. "Puppetman died last night. And I'm glad. I'm so goddamn glad." Gregg felt the laughter becoming tinged with hysteria, and he took a deep breath. He looked at Tachyon, who stared at him sternly. Gregg raced to say the rest. "My god, the words are so fucking inadequate and stupid, but it's true. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all and I'd like to do what I can to start making up for it. Doctor, I've been made to do things that I hated. I lost a son because Gimli used Puppetman against me, I-"

"You are not listening to me. There was no Puppetman and Gimli died over a year ago. There was no Gimli either." It took several long seconds before the impact of those words sunk into Gregg. "What?" he stuttered, then the denial came fierce and desperate and angry. "You don't know what the hell you're saying, Doctor. Gimli's body died, but not his mind. He found his way into my son. He was in my head; he nearly made me lose any control of Puppetman at all-that's how all this started. He threatened me, said he was going to make Puppetman destroy me and my career."

"Gimli died a year ago," Tachyon repeated, relentlessly. "All of him. You made up his ghost yourself, the same way you made up Puppetman."

"You lie!" The word was a shout. Gregg's face was distorted with rage.

Tachyon just stared at him coldly. "I was in your head, Senator. You have no secrets from me. You are a disassociative personality. You've denied the responsibility for your own actions by creating Puppetman, and when that threatened to get out of hand, you needed another excuse: Gimli."

"No!" Gregg shouted again.

"Yes," Tachyon insisted. "I will tell you once more. There was never a Gimli, never a Puppetman. Just Gregg. Everything you did, you did yourself."

Hartmann shook his head wildly. His gaze was pleading, hurt and vulnerable. "No," he said softly. "Gimli was there." His eyes went suddenly wide and frightened. "I… I wouldn't have killed my child, Doctor."

"You did," Tachyon said, and he saw in Gregg's eyes the deep wounds each word ripped into the man's soul, even though Gregg would not admit it. Already Hartmann was defiantly forcing himself into a semblance of calm and control. He smoothed his hair back with one hand.

"Doctor, I don't know what you want me to do. Even assuming that I gave any credence at all to what you're saying-"

"Get help."

Intent on his own words, Hartmann almost missed Tachyon's. "Hmm?"

"Get help, Gregg. Find a therapist. I'll find you a therapist-" Suddenly Tachyon realized how impossible that was. A therapist would have to be told too much, and it would all come out. Somehow, it could all unravel. Tachyon's face twisted in frustration. He did not like the only answer he could see. "We're going to spend a lot of time together, Gregg."

"What do you mean?"

"As of now, I am your physician. You are under my care." Gregg spat laughter, turning his back on the doctor. "No," he said. "Uh-uh. I don't need a damn shrink because Puppetman's gone. You're not even human, Doctor. I doubt you're particularly well-qualified to act as a psychologist."

"Consider it a compromise position. It will guarantee my silence."

"I tell you the power's gone, and the power was at fault."

"And we go around again? Admit the truth of what I'm telling you, Gregg. You won't even look at me. I saw your guilt, Gregg. You can deny-even to yourself-but I know the truth. It's time for you to start facing the reality."

Long silence stretched between them. Finally Gregg said, "All right, Doctor. I'll grant you a compromise politicians are used to them. Your silence for my business, huh? I suppose you'll need some paying customers when the funds are cut off."

Tachyon did not dignify the insult with a comment. "I will contact you as soon as I return to New York."

"Fine." Hartmann sighed. He tried to give that professional smile of his and failed. Walking over to the suitcase, he swung it o$' the bed.

"Well, this is it, then. I'm going to pick up Ellen. She's understandably confused and hurt by all of this." The selfconscious smile flashed again. "I'm going to tell her I'm sorry, too. Goodbye for now. I guess I'll be seeing you soon…" Hartmann thrust out his hand to Tachyon.

Tachyon stared in bitter disbelief at the proferred hand. He wondered if this was not some final, cruel joke of Gregg's. Hey, all's forgiven. Let's shake and make up. Buddies again.

But I can't shake, you bastard. You saw to that. Hartmann suddenly realized what he'd done and yanked back his hand. He didn't say anything. He went to the door and opened it. They left the room together.

"Walk with me to the elevators?" asked Hartmann. "No."

"I'll be calling for that appointment, then."

Tachyon watched him walk away-a soft, overweight man with pale white scalp like wings where the hair had receded. He had always thought of Gregg as a dynamic, handsome man.

Now he realized that that too had been a function of his power. Was I wrong to speak the truth about his power? Perhaps it would have been better to simply let him believe in his possession by Puppetman and Gimli.

NO! He escaped punishment. I'm not going to let him escape the guilt.

But for all intents and purposes Puppetman was dead. Now it was up to Tachyon to keep it that way. Which meant he had to remain close to Gregg Hartmann. The thought was nauseating.

The alien walked to the stairwell. Sat down on the concrete step and leaned his head against the cold metal handrail. His arm was throbbing again, claws of pain that seemed to rip up his arm and into his shoulder. This might very well be the place where Jack had died, he thought wearily. And, right down there, Gregg killed his own child.

I'm dead too. But nobody's realized it yet because I'm still walking around.

Eight days in July. Eight days in which to lose so much: his oldest friendship on Earth; his belief and respect in Gregg Hartmann; the love and respect of his jokers.

His hand.

His innocence.

But jack hadn't died. And he wasn't dead yet either. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Tis, and get on with the business of living."

But I have to deal with Hartmann! his mind wailed. "Tough. Someday after he's dead and buried you can present a paper on him at the AMA." He began to climb the stairs.