Aces Abroad

BOMB!

He reached out with his mind and seized the officer. For a moment the man writhed and danced like a moth in a flame as his controller and Tach fought for supremacy. The strain was too much for his human mind, and consciousness left him like a candle being snuffed. The major went down spraddlelegged on the polished wood floor. Tach found his fingers closing about the edges of the black leather case, though he couldn't remember moving.

Controller knows he's lost focus. Time detonated or command detonated? No time to ponder on it.

The solution, when it came, almost wasn't conscious. He reached out, gripped the mind. Jack Braun stiffened, dropped his drink, and went running for the long windows overlooking the front garden and fountains. People flew like ninepins as the big ace came barreling through them. Tachyon cocked back his arm, prayed to the ancestors for aim and strength,' and threw.

Jack, like a hero in a forties football film, leapt, plucked the spinning case from the air, tucked it tight into his chest, and launched himself out the window. Glass haloed his gold-glowing body. A second later, and a tremendous explosion blew out the rest of the windows lining the Hall of Mirrors. Women screamed as razor-edged glass shards bit deep into unprotected skin. Glass and gravel from the yard pattered like hysterical raindrops onto the wood floor.

People rushed to the window to check on Braun. Tachyon turned his back on the windows and knelt beside the stentoriously breathing major. One should have priorities.

"Let's go over it again."

Tach eased his aching buttocks on the hard plastic chair, shifted until he could take a surreptitious glance at his watch. 12:10 A.M. Police were definitely the same the world over. Instead of being grateful for his having averted a tragedy, they were treating him as if he were the criminal. And Jack Braun had been spared all this because the authorities had insisted on carting him off to the hospital. Of course he wasn't hurt, that was why Tachyon had selected him. No doubt by morning the papers would be filled with praise for the brave American ace, thought Tach sourly. Never noticing my contributions.

"Monsieur?" prodded Jean Baptiste Rochambeau of the French Surete.

"To what purpose? I've told you. I sensed a powerful, natural mind control at work. Because of the user's lack of training and control, I was unable to pinpoint the source. I could, however, pinpoint its victim. When I fought for control, I read through to the controller's mind, read the presence of the bomb, mind-controlled Braun, tossed him the bomb, he went out the window, the bomb exploded, with him no worse for the wear except perhaps wearing some of the topiary"

"There is no topiary beyond the windows of the Hall of Mirrors," sniffed Rochambeau's assistant in his nasal, highpitched voice.

Tach swung around in the chair. "It was a little joke," he explained gently.

"Dr. Tachyon. We are not doubting your story. It's just that it's impossible. No such powerful… mentat?"-he looked to Tachyon far confirmation-"exists in France. As Dr. Corvisart has explained, we have every carrier, both latent and expressed, on file."

"Then one has slipped past you."

Corvisart, an arrogant gray-haired man with fat cheeks like a chipmunk's and a tiny pursed bud of a mouth, gave a stubborn headshake.

"Every infant is tested and registered at birth. Every immigrant is tested at the border. Every tourist must have the test before they can receive a visa. The only explanation is the one I have suspected for several years. The virus has mutated."

"That is patent and utter nonsense! With all due respect, Doctor, I am the foremost authority on the wild card virus on this or any other world."

Perhaps something of an exaggeration that, but surely it could be forgiven. He had been enduring fools with such patience for so many hours.

Corvisart was quivering with outrage. "Our research has been acknowledged as the best in the world."

"Ah, but I don't publish." Tachyon was on his feet. "I don't have to." A single-step advance. " I have a certain advantage." Another. "I helped develop the withering thing!" he bellowed down into the Frenchman's face.

Corvisart held stubbornly firm. "You are wrong. The mentat exists, he is not on file, ergo the virus has mutated."

"I want to see your notes, duplicate the research, look over these vaunted files." This he addressed to Rochambeau. He might have the soul of a policeman, but at least he wasn't an idiot.

The Surete officer cocked an eyebrow. "You have any objections, Dr. Corvisart?"

"I suppose not."

"You want to start now?"

"Why not? The night's ruined anyway."

They set him up in Corvisart's office with an impressive computer at his disposal, bulging hard-copy files of research, a foot-high stack of disks, and a cup of strong coffee that Tach liberally laced with brandy from his hip flask.

The research was good, but it was geared toward proving Corvisart's pet premise. The hope of fame in the form of a mutated form-Wild Cardus Corvisartus?-was subtly coloring the Frenchman's interpretations of the data he was collecting. The virus was not mutating.

Thank the gods and ancestors, Tach sent up as a heartfelt prayer.

He was scrolling idly through the wild card registry when an anomaly, something not quite right, caught his attention. It was five in the morning, hardly the time to scroll back several years to check if he'd seen what he'd thought he'd seen, but upbringing and his own curious nature could not be denied. After several minutes of fervid key tapping he had the screen divided and both documents called up side by side. He fell back in the chair, rumpling his already tumbled curls with nervous fingers.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said aloud to the silent room. The door opened, and the adenoidal sergeant thrust in his head. "Monsieur? You require something?"

"No, nothing."

His hand shot out, and he erased the damning documents. What he discovered was for him alone. For it was political dynamite. It would create havoc with an election, cost a man the presidency, and shake the foundations of trust of the electorate should it get out.

Tach pressed his hands into the small of his back, stretched until vertebrae popped, and shook his head like a weary pony. "Sergeant, I am very much afraid that I have found nothing that is of any help. And I'm too tired to go on. May I please be returned to the hotel?"

But his bed at the Ritz had held no comfort or rest, so here he was leaning over the bridge railing on the Pont de la Concorde watching coal barges slip by, and snuffling eagerly at the smell of baking bread, which seemed to have permeated the city. Every part of his small body seemed to be suffering from some discomfort. His eyes felt like two burned holes in a blanket, his back still ached from that impossible chair, and his stomach was demanding to be fed. But worst of all was what he had dubbed his mental indigestion. He had seen or heard something of significance. And until he hit upon it, his brain was going to continue to seethe like jelly boiling on a stove.

"Sometimes," he told his mind severely, "I feel as if you have a mind of your own."

He began walking through the Place de la Concorde, where Marie Antoinette had lost her head, the spot now marked by a venerable Egyptian obelisk. There were plenty of restaurants to choose from: the Hotel de Crillon, the Hotel Intercontinental, just two blocks from the square, where Dani was no doubt hard at work, and beyond it the Ritz. He hadn't seen any of his companions since the dramatic events of the previous night. His entrance would be met with exclamations, congratulations… He decided to miss the whole mess.

He was still wearing his reception finery. Pale lavender and rose, and a foam of lace. He frowned when a taxi driver gaped and drove over a curb and almost into one of the central fountains. Embarrassed, Tachyon darted through the richly decorated iron railing and into the -Tuileries Gardens. On either side loomed the Jeu de Paume and the Orangerie, ahead the neat rows of chestnut trees, fountains, and a riot of statues.

Tach dropped wearily onto the edge of a basin. The fountain squirted into life and sent a fine spray of mist across his face. For a moment he sat with eyes closed, savoring the cool touch of the water. Retreating to a nearby bench, he pulled out the picture of Gisele and again studied those delicate features. Why was it that whenever he came to Paris, he found only death?

And suddenly the piece fell into place. The puzzle lay complete before him. With a cry of joy he leapt to his feet and broke into a frantic run. The high heels of his formal pumps slipped on the gravel path. Cursing, he hopped along, pulling them off. Then with a shoe in each hand he flew up the stairs and onto the Rue de Rivoli. Horns blared, tires squealed, drivers shrieked. He ran on heedless of it all. Pulled up gasping before the glass and marble entrance to the Hotel Intercontinental. Met the bemused eyes of the doorman, slipped his feet into his shoes, straightened his coat, patted at his tumbled hair, trod casually into the quiet lobby.

"Bonjour."

The desk clerk's eyes widened in dawning wonder as he recognized the extravagant figure before him. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties with sleek seal-brown hair and deep blue eyes.

"You have a woman working here. Danelle Moncey. It is vital that I speak with her."

"Moncey? No, Monsieur Tachyon. There is no one by-"

"Damn! She married. I forgot that. She's a maid, midfifties, black eyes, gray hair." His heart was thundering, setting up an answering pounding in his temples. The young man looked nervously down at Tachyon's hands, which had closed urgently about his lapels, pulling him half over the counter. Releasing the clerk, Tachyon rubbed his fingertips. "Forgive me. As you can see, this is very important… very important to me."

"I'm sorry, but there is no Danelle working here."

"She's a Communist," Tach added in desperation.

The man shook his head, but the pert blond behind the exchange counter suddenly said, "Ah, no, Francois. You know, Danelle."

"Then she is here?"

"Oh, mais oui. She is on the third floor-"

"Will you get her for me?" Tachyon gave the girl his best come-hither smile.

"Monsieur, she is working," protested the desk clerk. " I only require a moment of her time."

"Monsieur, I cannot have a cleaning woman in the lobby of the Intercontinental." It was almost a wail.

"Blood's end! Then I'll go to her."

Danelle was bundling sheets into a hamper. Gasped when she saw him, tried to bull past him using her cleaning cart as a battering ram. He danced aside and caught her by the wrist.

"We must talk." He was grinning like a fool. "I'm working."

"Take the day off."

"I'll lose my job."

"You're not going to need this job any longer."

"Oh, why not?"

A man and his wife stepped out of their room and stared curiously at the couple.

"This won't do."

She eyed him, checked her cheap wristwatch. "It's almost my break. I'll meet you at the Cafe Morens just down from the hotel on the Rue du Juillet. Buy me some cigarettes and my usual."

"Which is?"

"They'll know. I always take my break there."

He took her face between his hands and kissed her. Smiled at her confused expression.

"What has happened with you?"

"I'll tell you at the cafe."

As he hurried back through the lobby he saw the desk clerk just hanging up the phone in one of the public booths. The young blond woman waved and called, "Did you find her?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you very much."

Tachyon fidgeted at one of the tiny tables that had been squeezed out front of the cafe. The street was so narrow that the parked cars had two wheels cocked up on the sidewalks.

Dani arrived and lit a Gauloise. "So what is this all about?"

"You lied to me." He shook a finger coyly under her nose. "Our daughter is not dead. At Versailles… that was not a wild card, it was my blood kin. I don't blame you for wanting to hurt me, but let me make it up to you. I'll get you both back to America."

A small car was gunning down the street. As it swept past, the chatter of automatic weapon fire echoed off the gray stone buildings. Danelle jerked in the chair. Tachyon caught her, flung them both down behind one of the parked cars. A white-hot poker burned through his thigh, and his elbow hit the sidewalk with a jarring crack. He lay frozen, cheek pressed to the pavement, something warm running over his hand. His leg had gone numb.

Danelle's breath was rattling in her throat. Tachyon took her mind. Gisele appeared. Reflected a million times over in a million different memories. Gisele. A brilliant firefly presence.

Desperately he reached after her, but she was receding, a lost and elusive magic among the darkening pathways of her dying mother's mind.

Danelle died. Gisele died.

But had left a part of herself. A son. Tach clung to her, violating every rule of advanced mentatics by holding to a dying mind. Panic seized him, and he fled back from that terrifying boundary.

In the physical world the air was filled with the undulating wail of sirens. Oh, ancestors, what to do? Be found here with a murdered hotel maid? Ludicrous. There would be questions to be answered. They would learn of his grandchild. And if wild cards were a national treasure, how much more a treasure was a part-blood Takisian?

The pain was beginning. Tachyon experimentally moved the leg and found that the bullet had missed the bone. The effort had popped sweat and filled the back of his throat with bile. How could he possibly reach the Ritz? He tightened his jaw. Because he was a prince of the house Ilkazam. It's only two blocks, he thought encouragingly.

He laid Danelle gently aside, folded her hands on her bosom, kissed her forehead. Mother of my child. Later he would mourn her properly. But first came vengeance.

The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. There wasn't much blood. Yet. As he walked it began to pump. Camouflage, something to hide the wound just long enough to get past the desk and up to his room. He checked in parked cars. A folded newspaper. And the window was open. Not perfect, but good enough. Now he just had to find enough control not to limp those few steps from the front door to the elevator.

Piece of cake, as Mark would say. Training was everything. And blood. Blood would always tell.

He had taken a stab at sleeping, but it had been useless. Finally at six Jack Braun kicked aside the entangling bed clothes, stripped off sweat-soaked pajamas, dressed, and went in search of food.

Five months of hunched shoulders and nervous backward glances. Five months in which he had never spoken. Refused to grant him even eye contact. Had the hope of rehabilitation really been worth this amount of hell?

The Swarm invasion was to blame. It had pulled him back, out of the womb of real estate and California evenings and poolside sex. Here was a real crisis. No ace, no matter how tainted, would be unwelcome. And he'd done good, stomping all over monsters in Kentucky and Texas. And he'd discovered something interesting. Most of the new young aces didn't know who the hell he was. A few, Hiram Worchester, the Turtle, had known and it had mattered. But it was bearable. So maybe there was a way to come back. To be a hero again.

Hartmann had announced the world tour.

Jack had always admired Hartmann. Admired the way he'd led the fight to repeal certain parts of the Exotic Powers Control Act. He'd called the senator and offered to foot part of the bill. Money was always welcome to a politician, even if it wasn't being used to finance a campaign. Jack found himself on the plane.

And most of it hadn't been bad. There'd been plenty of action with women-most notably with Fantasy. They had lain in bed one night in Italy, and she'd told him with vicious wit about Tachyon's impotency. And he'd laughed, too loud and too long. Trying to diminish Tachyon. Trying to make him less of a threat.

Over the years he'd absorbed a bit about Takisian culture from the interviews he'd read. Vengeance was definitely part of the code. So he'd watched his back and waited for Tachyon to act. And nothing had happened.

The strain was killing him. And then had come last night.

He smeared butter on the last roll in the bread basket, washed down the hard crusted bite with a sip of the unbelievably strong French coffee. He sure wished these Frenchies had a concept of a real breakfast. He could order an American breakfast of course, but the cost was as unbelievable as the coffee. This basket of dry bread and coffee was costing him ten dollars. Add in some eggs and bacon, and the cost soared to near thirty dollars. For breakfast!

Suddenly the absurdity of the thought struck him. He was a rich man, not a Depression farm boy from North Dakota. His contribution to this tour had been big enough to buy him a piece of the big 747, or at least the jet fuel to fly it-

Tachyon was entering the hotel, and the hair on the nape of Jack's neck prickled. The door of the small restaurant gave him only a limited view, and soon the alien was out of sight. Jack felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax, and with a sigh he lifted a finger and ordered a full American breakfast.

Tachyon had looked funny. Fork moved mechanically from plate to mouth. Holding himself real stiff. Folded newspaper along his thigh like a soldier on dress parade. None of his business what the bastard was getting up to.

But last night was his business.

Anger ate through his belly like a physical pain. Sure the bomb couldn't have hurt him, but he took my mind. Casually, like a man tasting a mint. Reducing him in an instant from man to object.

Jack mopped up the last of the yolk while anger and outrage grew. God damn it! It was stupid to be scared of a pint-size fairy in fancy dress.

Not scared, Jack's mind quickly amended. He'd stayed away from the alien out of politeness, an acknowledgment of how much Tachyon hated him. But now Tachyon had changed the rules. He'd taken his mind. That he wasn't going to allow to pass.

They looked like two little red mouths. Bullet in, bullet out. Tach, seated in his undershorts, jabbed in a hypodermic, depressed the plunger, waited for the painkiller to take effect. Just for good measure he'd given himself a tetanus shot and an injection of penicillin. Spent hypos littered the table, a gauze pad lay ready, a roll of cotton.. But for the moment he would let it seep. And do some hard thinking.

So Danelle had not lied. She had just not told all. Gisele was dead. The question was, how? Or did that matter? Probably not. What mattered was that she had married and borne a son. My grandson. And he had to be found.

And the father? Well, what of him? Assuming he was still alive, he was no fit guardian for the boy. The father-or unknown others-were manipulating this Takisian gift to spread terror.

So where to start? Undoubtedly at Danelle's apartment. Then to the hall of records to search for the marriage license and birth certificate.

But that attack on Danelle and himself had been no accident. They, whoever they were, were watching. So, however distasteful, he was going to have to make an effort to blend in.

Braun spent a few moments dithering in the hall. But outrage won over prudence. He tested the door, found it locked, gave a hard twist, and broke the knob. Stepped over the threshold and froze in astonishment at the sight of Tachyon, scissors at the ready, seated in the midst of a circle of snipped red locks.

The Takisian gaped back, a final hank of that improbable hair clutched in a hand.

"How dare you!"

"What in the hell are you doing?"

As their first exchange in almost forty years, it seemed to lack something.

In quick flicks like the shuttering of a camera, the rest of the scene came into focus. Jack's forefinger shot out. "That's a bullet wound."

"Nonsense." The gauze was laid quickly over the white thigh with its peppering of red-gold hairs. "Now get out of my room."

"Not until I have some answers out of you. Who the hell has been shooting at you?" He snapped his fingers. "The bomb at Versailles. You've got a line into the people-"

"NO!" Far too quick and far too strong. "Have you told the authorities?"

"There is no need. This is not a bullet wound. I know nothing of the terrorists." The scissors sawed viciously through the last piece of hair. It fluttered to the floor, ironically forming a shape very reminiscent of a question mark.

"Why are you cutting your hair?"

"Because I feel like it! Now get out before I take your mind and make you go."

"You do, and I'll come back and break your damn neck. You've never forgiven me-"

"You have that right!"

"You threw a goddamm bomb at me!"

"Unfortunately I knew it wouldn't hurt you."

The long slender fingers played about his cropped head, fluttering among the curls until they clustered about his face. It had the effect of making him appear suddenly very young.

Braun stepped in on him, rested his hands on either arm of the chair, effectively trapping Tachyon. "This tour is important. If you get up to some crazy stunt, it could damage everybody's reputation. You I don't give a damn about, but Gregg Hartmann is important."

The alien looked away and gazed woodenly out the window. Despite being clad only in shirt and shorts he managed to make it seem regal.

"I'll go to Hartmann."

There was a flicker of alarm deep in the lilac eyes, quickly suppressed. "Fine, go. Anything to be rid of you." Silence stretched between them. Suddenly Braun asked, "Are you in trouble?" No reply. "If you are, tell me. Maybe I can help."

The long lashes lifted, and Tachyon looked him fully in the eyes. There was nothing young about the narrow face now. It looked as cold and old and as implacable as death. "I've had enough of your help for one lifetime, thank you."

Jack almost ran from the room.

Tachyon pulled off the soft brown fedora and crumpled it agitatedly in his hands. The tiny two-room flat looked as if it had been struck by a cyclone. Drawers stood open, a cheap picture frame stood forlornly empty on a scarred table. What had it held that was so significant it had to be removed? The police? he wondered. No, they would have been more careful. So Dani's killers had been here, and the police were yet to come, which meant Tach had to hurry. The newly purchased jeans felt stiff against his skin, and he tugged fretfully at the crotch while he riffled through the paperbacks that littered the front room.

A faint rasp sounded from the bedroom. Tachyon froze, crept cat-footed to the hot plate, and lifted the knife lying next to it. In a quick rush he crossed the room and pressed himself against the wall, ready to stab whatever came through the connecting door.

Careful, quiet footsteps, but enough vibration for Tach to tell that his opponent was big. Two sets of soft breaths from either side of the wall. Tach held his, waited. The man came through the door in a rush; Tachyon lunged in low, ready to drive the blade up beneath the ribs. The blade snapped, and gold light flashed across the dingy apartment walls. Jack Braun, forming his hand into a gun, placed his forefinger firmly between Tachyon's eyes, "Bang, bang, you're dead."

"GOD DAMN YOU!" In a blaze of temper he flung the broken knife against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

"I followed you."

"I never saw you!"

" I know. I'm pretty good at this." The implication was clear.

"Why can't you just leave… me… alone?"

"Because you're getting in way over your head."

"I can take care of myself"

A derisive snort.

"If it hadn't been you, I'd have taken you out," Tach cried.

"Yeah? And what if there'd been more than one? Or if they'd had guns?"

" I don't have time to discuss this with you. The police may be here any minute," the alien threw over his shoulder as he stormed into the bedroom and continued his search.

"Police! HOLD IT! What is going on? Why the police?"

"Because the woman who lived in this flat was murdered this morning."

"Oh, great. And why does this involve you?" Tachyon's mouth tightened mulishly. Braun gathered up the front of the alien's shirt, hefted him off the ground, and held him at eye level, noses almost touching. "Tachyon." It was a warning rumble.

"It's a private matter."

"Not if the police are involved it isn't."

"I can handle it myself."

" I don't think so. You couldn't even spot me." Tachyon sulked. "Tell me what's going on. I just might help you."

"Oh, very well," he snapped pettishly. "I'm searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of my grandson."

That took some explaining. Tachyon fired out the tale in quick staccato sentences while they finished pawing through the jumble, turning up absolutely nothing.

"So you see, I have to find him first and get him out of the country before the French authorities realize what they possess," he concluded, laying his hand on the doorknob. And heard a key rasp in the lock.

"Oh, shit," whispered Tach. "Police?" mouthed Jack. "Undoubtedly," the Takisian mouthed back.

"Fire escape." Jack pointed back over his shoulder. They fled.

"Let's see what we've got." Braun paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon stopped wolfing down his enormous and very belated lunch and fished the paper from his jeans. Tossed it, only to have it land fluttering in the mustard jar. "God damn it, be careful," said Jack, aggrieved, and mopped at the paper with his napkin.

Tachyon continued to shovel it in. With an annoyed grunt the ace pulled out a pair of reading glasses and peered at the Takisians florid hand:

Gisele Bacourt wed Frangois Andrieux in a civil ceremony on December 5th, 1971.

One child, Blaise Jeannot Andrieux, born May 7, 1975. Gisele Andrieux killed in a shoot-out with industrialist Simon de Montfort's personal bodyguard, November 28, 1984. Both husband and wife were members of the French Communist Party.

Franrcois Andrieux had been pulled in for questioning, but was released when nothing conclusive could be found. They had tried the simple expedient of checking the phone book, and-not surprisingly-Andrieux had not been listed. Jack sighed, rocked back in his chair, and returned his glasses to his shirt pocket. The Eiffel Tower cast an elongated shadow across the outdoor cafe.

"It's getting late, and we've got that dinner at the Tour Eiffel."

"I'm not going."

"Oh?"

"No, I'm going to go talk to Claude Bonnell."

"Who?"

"Bonnell, Bonnell! Le Miroir, you know?".. Why?

"Because he's a major figure in the Communist Party. He may be able to obtain Andrieux's address for me."

"And if that fails?" The smoke from the cigarette formed a loop in the air between them.

" I don't want to think about that."

"Well, you better, if you really want to find this guy."

"So what's your suggestion?"

"Try tracing the materials used in the bomb. They had to buy the stuff somewhere."

Tach made a face. "Sounds slow and tedious."

"It is."

"Then I'll pin my hope on Bonnell."

"Fine, you hope, and I'll pursue my bomb idea. Of course, how we're going to get that information I'm not certain. I suppose you could always go to see Rochambeau and pick his brains…"

Tachyon steepled his fingers before his face and peered speculatively over the top at Jack. "I have a better idea."

"What?"

"Don't sound so suspicious. You and Billy Ray could talk to Rochambeau about the bomb. Say that you think it was meant for the senator-it might have been for all we knowsuggest that you pool information."

"Might work." Jack ground out the cigarette. "Billy Ray is a justice Department ace, and Hartmann's bodyguard. 'Course he's bound to ask why I'm involved."

"Just tell him it's because you're Golden Boy." And the tone was undiluted acid.

Bonnell's dressing room backstage at the Lido was typical. The strong odor of cold cream, greasepaint, and hair spray overlaying the fainter scents of old sweat and stale perfume.

Tachyon straddled a chair, arms resting along the back, and watched the joker put the final touches on his makeup. "Could you hand, me my ruff?"

Bonnell clasped it about his neck, rose, took one final critical look at the black and white harlequin costume, and settled back into the battered wooden chair.

"All right, Doctor. I'm ready. Now tell me what I can do for you."

"I need a favor." They spoke in French. "Which is?"

"Do you have membership lists-addresses-for your members?"

"I assume we're speaking of the Party."

"Oh, forgive me. Yes."

"And to answer you, yes, we do."

Bonnell was not helping him any. Tach plowed awkwardly on. "Could you obtain an address for me?"

"That would depend on what you want it for."

"Nothing nefarious, I assure you. A personal matter."

"Hmmm." Bonnell straightened the already meticulously arranged pots and tubes on his dressing table. "Doctor, you presume a great deal. We have met only once, yet you come to me asking for private information. And if I were to ask you why?"

"I'd rather not say."

"I rather thought that would be your answer. So I'm afraid I really must refuse."

Exhaustion, tension, and the throbbing ache from his leg slammed down like a curling storm wave. Tach laid his head on his arms. Fought tears. Considered just giving up. A gentle but firm hand caught his chin and forced his head up. "This really means a great deal to you, doesn't it?"

"More than you can know"

"So tell me so I will know. Can't you trust me? Just a little?"

" I lived in Paris long ago. Have you been a communist for long?" he asked abruptly.

"Ever since I was able to comprehend politics."

"Then I'm surprised I didn't meet you all those long years ago. I knew them all. Thorenz, Lena Goldoni… Danelle."

"I wasn't in Paris then. I was still in Marseilles getting the crap beat out of me by my supposedly normal neighbors." His smile was bitter. "France has not always been so kind to her wild cards."

"I'm sorry."

"Why should you be?"

"Because it's my fault."

"That's an exceedingly silly and self-indulgent attitude."

"Thank you so very much."

"The past is dead, buried, and gone forever past recall. Only the present and the future matter, Doctor."

"And I think that's a silly and simplistic attitude. The actions of the past have consequences for the present and the future. Thirty-six years ago I came to this country broken and bitter. I slept with a young girl. Now I return to find that I left a more permanent mark on this place than I had thought. I sired a child who was born, lived, and died without my ever knowing of her existence. I could curse her mother for that, and yet perhaps she was wise. For the first thirteen years of Gisele's life her father was a drunken derelict. What could I have given her?" He paced away and stood rigidly regarding a wall. Then whirled and rested his shoulders against the cool plaster.

"I lost my chance with her, but the Ideal has granted me another. She had a son, my grandchild. And I want him."

"And the father?"

"Is a member of your party"

"You say you want him. What? You would steal him from his father?"

Tach rubbed wearily at his eyes. Forty-eight hours without sleep was taking its toll. " I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead. All I want is to see him, to hold him, to look into the face of my future."

Bonnell slapped his hands onto his thighs and pushed up from the chair. "C'est bien, Doctor. A man deserves a chance to look upon the intersection of his past, present, and future. I will find you this man."

"Just give his address, there's no reason for you to be involved."

"He might take fright. I can reassure him, set up a meeting. His name-?"

"Francois Andrieux."

Bonnell noted it. "Very good. So, I will speak to this man, and then I will ring you at tfie Ritz-"

"I'm no longer staying there. You can reach me at the Lys on the Left Bank."

" I see. Any particular reason?"

"No."

"I must work on that innocent expression. It is very charming, if not terribly convincing." Tachyon flushed, and Bonnell laughed. "There, there, don't take offense. You've told me enough of your secrets tonight. I won't press you for any more."

The junket was dining at the expensive Tour Eiffel. Tachyon, leaning on the rail of the observation deck, fidgeted and waited for Braun to emerge. Through the windows of the restaurant he could see that the party had reached the brandy-coffee-cigars-speeches stage. The door opened, and Mistral, giggling, darted out. She was followed by Captain Donatien Racine, one of France's more prominent aces. His sole power was flight, but that coupled with the fact he was career military had ensured that the press dubbed him Tricolor. It was a name he hated.

Gripping the American about her slender waist, Racine carried them over the protective railing. Mistral gave him a quick kiss, pushed free of his encircling arm, and floated away on the gentle breezes that sighed about the tower. Her great blue-and-silver cape spread around her until she resembled an exotic moth drawn by the glittering lights webbing the tower. Watching the couple darting and swooping in an intricate game of tag, Tachyon suddenly felt very weary and very old and very earthbound.

The restaurant doors flew open, and the delegation flowed out like water through a broken dam. After five months of formal dinners and endless speeches, it was no wonder they fled.

Braun, elegant in his white tie and tails, paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon touched him with a thread of telepathy. Jack.

He stiffened, but gave no other outward sign.

Gregg Hartmann glanced back. "Jack. are you coming."

"I'll catch up with you. Think I'll enjoy the air and the view and watch those crazy kids skydive." He pointed to Mistral and Racine.

A few moments later he joined Tachyon at the rail. "Bonnell's going to set up a meeting."

Braun grunted, flicked ash. "The Surete were at the hotel when I got back. They tried to be subtle about questioning the delegation as to your whereabouts, but the news hounds are snuffling. They sense a story"

The Takisian shrugged it aside with a hunch of the shoulder. "Will you come with me? To the meeting?" Ancestors, how it stuck in the throat to ask him for help! "Sure."

"I may need help with the father."

"So you're going to do…"

"Whatever it takes. I want him."

Montmartre. Where artists, legitimate and otherwise, swarmed like locusts ready to fall upon the unwary tourist. A portrait of your beautiful wife, monsieur. The cost politely never mentioned, then when it was completed a charge sufficient to purchase an old master.

Tour buses groaned up the hill and disgorged their eager passengers. The Gypsy children, circling like vultures, moved in. The European travelers, wise to the ways of these innocentfaced thieves, drove them away with loud threats. The Japanese and Americans, lulled by sparkling black eyes in dark faces, allowed them to approach. Later they would rue it when they discovered the loss of wallets, watches, jewelry.

So many people, and one small boy.

Braun, hands on hips, gazed out across the plaza before Sacre-Coeur. It was awash with people. Easels thrust up like masts from a colorful surging sea. He sighed, checked his watch.

"They're late."

"Patience."

Braun stared pointedly at his watch again. The Gypsy children attracted by the slim gold band of the Longines crept forward.

"Beat it!" Jack roared. "Jesus, where do they all come from? Is there a Gypsy factory the same way there's a hooker factory?"

"They're usually sold by their mothers to `talent scouts' from France and Italy. They're then trained to steal and work like slaves for their owners."

"Jesus, sounds like something out of Dickens."

Tachyon shaded his eyes with one slim hand and searched for Bonnell.

"You know you were supposed to address a conference of researchers today."

"Yes."

"Well, did you call to cancel?"

"No, I forgot. I have more important things on my mind right now than genetic research."

"I'd say that's exactly what you have on your mind," came Braun's dry reply.

A taxi pulled up, and Bonnell struggled painfully out. He was followed by a man and a small boy. Tachyon's fingers dug deep into Jack's bicep.

"Look. Dear God!"

"What?"

"That man. He's the clerk from the hotel."

"Huh?"

"He was at the Intercontinental."

The trio were walking toward them. Suddenly the father froze, pointed at Jack, gestured emphatically, grabbed the child by the wrist, and hustled for the taxi.

"No, dear God, no." Tachyon ran forward a few steps. Reached out, his power closing about their minds like a vise. They froze. He walked slowly toward them. Felt his breath go short as he devoured the small, stubborn face beneath its cap of red hair. The boy was fighting with not insignificant power, and only a quarter Takisian. Pride surged through Tach.

Suddenly he was flung to the ground, fists and rocks raining down upon him. He clung desperately to the control while the Gypsy children plucked at him, removing wallet, watch, and all the time continuing the hysterical beating. Jack waded in and began plucking urchins off him.

"No no, catch them. Don't worry about me!" screamed Tach. With a leg sweep he brought two to the ground, lurched to one knee, stiffened his fingers, and jabbed them hard into one gangling teenager's throat. The boy fell back, choking.

Jack hesitated, turned toward Andrieux and the boy, broke into a run. Tachyon, distracted, watched his progress. Never even saw the boot come swinging in. Pain exploded in his temple. Distantly he heard someone shouting, then bitter darkness.

Bonnell was wiping his face with a damp handkerchief when he finally came around. Desperately Tachyon levered up onto his elbows, then fell back as the motion sent waves of pain through his head and filled the back of his throat with nausea.

"Did you get them?"

"No." Jack was holding a bumper like a man displaying a prize catch. "When you went under they ran for it and made it into the cab. I tried to grab the car, but could only get the bumper. It came off, " he added unnecessarily. Jack eyed the interested crowd that had surrounded them and shooed them away.

" Then we've lost them."

"What did you expect? You turn up with the Judas Ace," said Bonnell angrily.

Jack flinched, murmured through stiff lips, "That was a long time ago."

"Some of us don't forget. And others of us shouldn't." He glared at Tachyon. " I thought I could trust you."

"Jack, go away."

"Well, fuck you too." Long, jerky strides carried him into the crowd and out of sight.

"It's funny, but I feel very badly about that." He gave himself a shake. "So what do we do now?"

"First I extract a promise from you that there will be no more stunts like today."

"All right."

"I'll reset the meeting for tonight. And this time come alone."

Jack wasn't sure why he did it. After the insult Tachyon had given him, he should have just washed his hands of the whole thing or told the Surete everything he knew. Instead he turned up at the Lys with an ice pack and aspirin.

"Thank you, but I do have a medical kit."

Jack tossed the bottle several times. "Oh, yeah? Well, then I'll take them. This whole thing is giving me a headache." Tach lifted the pack from his eye. "Why you?"

"Lie down and leave that thing on your eye." He scratched at his chin. "Look, let me throw something out to you. Doesn't this whole thing strike you as just a little too convenient?"

"In what way?" But Jack could tell from the little alien's cautious tone that he'd struck a nerve.

"Instead of just giving you Andrieux's address, Bonnell insists on setting up a meeting. They tried to split-"

"Because you were there."

"Yeah, right. You mind control them, then you just happen to get attacked by a gang of Gypsy children. I've done a little checking around. They never do that kind of thing. I think somebody had this arranged ahead of time. To make certain you couldn't use your mind control. And what about Andrieux? You said he was the clerk at the hotel. Then why did he deny any knowledge of Danelle? She was his mother-in-law, for Christ's sake. This thing stinks to high heaven."

Tachyon flung the ice pack against the wall. "So what do you suggest I do?"

"Don't work with Bonnell anymore. Don't go to any more meetings. Let me see what I can do with the bomb fragments. Rochambeau has agreed to work with Ray."

"That could take weeks. We leave in a few days."

"You are fucking obsessed with this!"

"Yes!"

"Why? Is it because you're impotent? Is that the big deal here?"

" I don't wish to discuss this."

" I know you don't, but you've got to! You're not thinking this through, Tachyon. What it could do to the tour, to your reputation-to mine for that matter. We're withholding vital evidence pertaining to a murder."

"You didn't have to become involved."

" I know that, and sometimes I wish to Christ I hadn't. But I'm into it now, so I'll see it through to the end. So are you going to sit tight and see what I can find?"

"Yes, I'll wait to see what you find out."

Jack shot him a suspicious glance. "Well, I guess that'll have to do."

"Oh, Jack." The big ace paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked back. "I apologize for this afternoon. It was wrong of me to send you away."

It was obvious from the Takisian's expression what this was costing him. "Okay," Jack replied gruffly.

It was an old house, a very old house, in the university district. Cracks cut the dingy plaster walls, and the musty odor of mold hung in the air. Bonnell gave Tachyon's arm a hard squeeze.

"Remember not to expect too much. This child doesn't know you."

Tachyon barely heard him, certainly paid no attention. He was already heading up the stairs.

There were five people in the room, but Tachyon saw only the boy. Perched on a stool, he was swinging one foot, slamming his heel rhythmically into a battered wooden leg.

His fine straight hair lacked the metallic copper fire of his grandsire's, but it was nonetheless a deep rich red. Tach felt a surge of pride at this evidence of his prepotence. Straight red brows gave Blaise an overly serious expression that set oddly on the narrow child's face. His eyes were a brilliant purple-black.

Standing behind, a hand possessively on his son's shoulder, was Andrieux. Tachyon studied him with the critical eye of a Takisian psi lord evaluating breeding stock. Not bad, human of course, but not bad. Definitely handsome, and he appeared intelligent. Still it was hard to tell. If only he could run tests… He tried to close his mind to the unwelcome suspicion that this man had been instrumental in Dani's death.

He looked back to Blaise and found the boy studying him with equal interest. There was nothing shy about the gaze. Suddenly Tach's shields repelled a powerful mind assault. "Trying to pay me back for yesterday?"

"Mail oui. You took my mind."

"You take people's minds."

"Of course. No one can stop me."

" I can." The brows snapped together in a thunderous frown. "I'm Tachyon. I'm your grandfather."

"You don't look like a grandfather."

"My kind live a very long time."

"Will I?"

"Longer than a human." The boy seemed pleased with this oblique reference to his alienness.

As they talked, Tach made a preliminary probe of his abilities. An unbelievable mind control aptitude for one so young. And all self-taught, that was the truly amazing thing. With proper instruction he would be a force to be reckoned with. No teke, no precog, and worst of all almost no telepathy. He was virtually mind blind.

That's what comes of unrestricted and unplanned breeding. "Doctor," said Claude. "Won't you sit down?"

"First I would like to give Blaise a hug." He looked inquiringly at the boy, who made a face.

"I don't like hugs and kisses."

"Why not?"

"It makes me feel like ants are on me."

"A common mentat reaction. You will not feel that way with me."

"Why not?"

"Because I am your kin and kind. I understand you better than anyone else in the world can ever understand you." Francois Andrieux shifted angrily.

"Well, I'll try it," said Blaise decisively, and slid off his stool. Again Tachyon was pleased with his assurance.

As his arms closed about his grandson's small form, tears rushed into his eyes.

"You're crying," Blaise accused. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I am so very happy to have found you. To know that you exist in the world."

Bonnell cleared his throat, a discreet little sound. "As loath as I am to interrupt this, I'm really afraid I must, Doctor." Tacbyon stiffened warily. "We have to talk a little business,"

"Business?" The word was dangerously low.

"Yes. I've given you what you want." He indicated Blaise with a flip of a tiny hand. "Now you have to give me what I want. Francois, take him."

Father and son left. Tachyon speculatively studied the remaining men.

"Please don't consider a mind-assisted escape. There are more of us waiting outside this room. And my companions are armed."

" I somehow assumed they would be." Tach settled onto a sagging sofa. It sent up a puff of dust under his weight. "So, you are a member of this little gang of galloping terrorists."

"No, sir, I lead it."

"Umm, and you had Dani killed."

"No. That was an act of blatant stupidity for which Francois has been… chastised. I disapprove of subordinates acting on their own initiative. They so often screw up. Don't you agree?"

Tachyon's late cousin Rabdan came instantly to mind, and he found himself nodding. Pulled himself up short. There was something very outre about this chatty little conversation, faced as he was with the man who had attempted to kill hundreds at Versailles.

"Oh, dear, and I had so hoped that Andrieux was bright," mused Tachyon, then he asked, "Is this a kidnapping for ransom?"

"Oh, no, Doctor, you're quite beyond price."

"So I've always thought."

"No, I need your help. In two days there will be a great debate between all the presidential candidates. We intend to kill as many of them as we can."

"Even your own candidate?"

"In a revolution sometimes sacrifice is necessary. But for your information, I have little loyalty to the Communist Party. They have betrayed the people, lost the will and the strength to make the difficult decisions. The mandate has passed to us."

Tach rested his forehead on a hand. "Oh, please, don't blurt slogans at me. It's one of the most tiresome things about you people."

"May I outline my plan?"

"I don't see any way I can prevent you."

"The security will undoubtedly be very tight."

"Undoubtedly." Bonnell shot him a sharp glance at the irony. Tachyon gazed innocently back.

"Rather than attempt to run this gauntlet with weapons of our own, we will use those already provided. You and Blaise will mind control as many guards as possible and have them rake the platform with automatic weapons fire. It should have the desired result."

"Interesting, but what can you possibly gain by this?"

"The destruction of France's ruling elite will throw the country into chaos. When that occurs, I won't need your esoteric powers. Guns and bombs will suffice. Sometimes the simplest things are often the best."

"What a philosopher you are. Perhaps you should set yourself up as a guide to the young."

"I already have. I'm Blaise's beloved Uncle Claude."

"Well, this has of course been instructional, but I very much regret that I must refuse."

"Not surprising. I had anticipated this. But consider, Doctor, I hold your grandson."

"You won't harm him, he's too precious to you."

"True. But my threat is not of death. If you refuse to accommodate me in this, I will be forced to have certain very unpleasant things done to you, being careful to ensure that you live. I will then disappear with Blaise. You might find it somewhat difficult to trace us when you are a bedridden cripple."

He smiled in satisfaction at the look of horror on Tachyon's face. "Jean will escort you to your room now. There you can reflect upon my offer and, I'm certain, see your way clear to help me."

"I doubt it," gritted Tachyon, regaining command of his voice, but it was hollow bravado, and Bonnell undoubtedly knew it.

The "room" turned out to be the very cold and dank basement of the house. Hours later Blaise arrived with his dinner.

"I have come to visit with you," he announced, and Tach sighed, again admiring and regretting Bonnell's cunning. The joker had obviously made a careful study of Tachyon, his attitudes and culture.

He ate while Blaise, chin resting in his cupped hands, gazed thoughtfully at him.

Tach set aside his fork. "You are very silent. I thought we were going to visit."

"I don't know what to say to you. It's very strange."

"What is?"

"Finding out about you. Now I'm not so special anymore, which bothers me, but it's also good to know…" He considered.

"That you're not alone," suggested Tach gently. "Yes, that's it."

"Why do you help them?"

"Because they are right. The old institutions must fall."

"But people have died."

"Yes," he agreed sunnily. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"Oh, no. They were bourgeois capitalist pigs and deserved to die. Sometimes killing is the only way."

"A very Takisian attitude."

"You will help us, won't you? It will be fun."

"Fun!"

It's his upbringing, Tach consoled himself. Endow any child with this kind of unsupervised power and they would react the same.

They talked. Tachyon pieced together a picture of unfettered freedom, virtually no formal schooling, the excitement of playing hide-and-seek with the authorities. More chilling was the realization that Blaise did not withdraw from his victims when they died. Rather he rode through the terror and pain of their final moment.

There will be time to correct this, he promised himself. "So will you help?" Blaise asked, hopping down from the chair. "Uncle Claude said to be sure and ask you." Seconds stretched into minutes as he considered. The noble course would be to tell Bonnell to go to hell. He considered Bonnell's gently worded threats and shuddered. He had been bred and trained to seize the opportunity, to turn defeat into victory. He would trust to that. Surely they could not guard him as closely at the rally.

"Tell Claude that I will help." An exuberant hug.

Alone, Tachyon continued to reflect. He did have one other advantage. Jack… who would surely realize something had gone terribly wrong and alert the Sfirete. But his hope was founded on a man whose weakness was well known tohim, and his fears on a man who, despite his civilized exterior, possessed no humanity.

Coming up on twenty-four hours since the little bastard had disappeared. Jack swung at the wall, pulled the punch just in time. Knocking out a wall at the Ritz wasn't going to help.

Was Tachyon in trouble?

Despite his promise, had he gone off with Bonnell? And did that necessarily mean trouble? Was it possible he was merely playing hooky with his grandkid?

If he was out visiting the zoo or whatever and Jack alerted the Sfirete, and they found out about Blaise, Tachyon would never forgive him. It would be another betrayal. Maybe his last one. The Takisian would find a way to get even this time.

But if he's really in trouble?

A knock pulled him from his distracted thoughts. One of Hartmann's interchangeable aides stood in the hall.

"Mr. Braun, the senator would like to invite you to join him at the debate tomorrow"

"Debate? What debate?"

"All one thousand and eleven"-a condescending little laugh-"or however many candidates there are in this crazy race, will be taking part in a round-robin debate in the Luxembourg Gardens. The senator would like as many of the tour as possible to be there. To show support for this great European democracy-such as it is. Mr. Braun… are you all right?"

"Fine, yeah, I'm fine. You tell the senator I'll be there."

"And Doctor Tachyon? The senator's very concerned by his continued absence."

"I think I can safely promise the senator that the doctor will be there too."

Closing the door, Jack quickly crossed to the phone and put in a call for Rochambeau. A probable terrorist attack on the candidates. No need to mention the child. Just an urgent need to call out the troops.

And a long night of praying he had guessed correctly. That he had made the right choice.

He should be sleeping, preparing mind and body for the morrow. His life and the future of his line depended upon his skill and speed and cunning.

And on Jack Braun. Ironic that.

If Jack had drawn the correct conclusion. If he had alerted the Sfirete. If there were sufficient officers. If Tachyon could stretch his talent beyond all limits and hold an unheard of number of minds.

He sat up on the rickety cot and hugged his stomach. Sank back and tried to relax. But it was a night for memories. Faces out of the past. Blythe, David, Earl, Dani.

I'm gambling my life and the life of my grandchild on the man who destroyed Blythe. Lovely.

But the possibility of dying can act as a spur for selfexamination. Force a person to strip away the comforting, insulating little lies that buffer one from their most private guilts and regrets.

"Then give me those names!"

"All right… all right."

The power-lancing out fragmenting her mind… her mind… her mind.

But they wouldn't have known but for Jack. And she wouldn't have absorbed their minds but for Holmes, and she wouldn't have been there but for the paranoia of a nation.

And no one would suffer had they not been born, thought Tach, quoting a favorite adage of his father's. Sometime one must stop excusing, accept responsibility for actions taken.

Tisianne brunt Ts'ara, Jack Braun didn't destroy Blythe, you did.

He flinched, prepared for it to hurt. Instead he felt better. Lighter, freer, at peace for the first time in so many, many years. He began to laugh, was not surprised when it turned to quiet tears.

They lasted for some time. When the storm ended, he lay back, exhausted but calm. Ready for tomorrow. After which he would return home and make a home and raise his child. Calmly and a little regretfully he turned his back on the past.

He was Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian, a prince of the House Ilkazam, and tomorrow his enemies would learn to their pain and regret what it meant to stand against him.

Claude, Blaise, and a driver remained in a car almost a block from the gardens. Tachyon, linked through the barrel of a Beretta with a stone-faced Andrieux, hovered at the outskirts of an enormous crowd. Parisians were nothing if not enthusiastic about their politics. But spotted throughout this sea of humanity like an insidious infection were the other fifteen members of Bonnell's cell. Waiting. For blood to flow and nurture their violent dreams.

On the stand, the candidates-all seven of them. About half the delegation seated in chairs directly in front of the bunting-hung platform. There was no way they would escape without injury if Tach should fail and the shooting begin. Jack came into view. Hands thrust deep into pants pockets, he paced and frowned out over the throng.

Blaise was a rider in Tachyon's mind. Ready to sense the tiniest use of telepathy. His power might be slight, but he was sensitive enough to detect the shift in focus such mind communication required. His presence suited his grandsire just fine. It would make what was to come all the easier. Carefully Tachyon constructed a mind-scrim of the scene. A false picture to lull his grandchild. He hedged it around with shields, presented it to Blaise. Then from beneath its protective cover be reached out, touched Jack's mind. Don't jump, keep frowning.

Where are you?

Near gate, edge of trees. Got it.

Surete?

Everywhere. Terrorists? Likewise everywhere. How…!?

They'll come to you. Wha…???

Trust.

He withdrew and carefully constructed a trap. It was similar to the link he enjoyed with Baby when the ship boosted and amplified his own natural powers to allow for transspace communication, but much, much stronger. Its teeth were very deep. What might it do to Blaise? No. There was no time for doubts.

The mind snare snapped down. A mental scream of alarm from the boy. Desperate struggle, panting resignation. The rider had become the ridden.

Tachyon joined Blaise's power to his. It was like a bar of white-hot light. Carefully he split it into strands. Each tendril snapped out like a burning whip. Settled on his captors. They became frozen statues.

He was gasping with effort, sweat bursting from his forehead, running in rivulets into his eyes. He set them marching, a regiment of zombies. As Andrieux stepped from his side, Tachyon forced his hand to move, to close about the Beretta, to pull it from his slave's limp grasp.

Braun was leaping about, gesticulating, summoning help with great arm sweeps.

Hurry! Hurry!

He had to hold them. All of them. If he failed… Blaise was struggling again. It was like being kicked over and over again in the gut. One thread snapped. To Claude Bonnell. With a cry Tachyon dropped the control, ran for the gate. Behind him there was the vicious snarl of an Uzi. Apparently one of his captives had tried to run and been cut down by the French security forces. Perhaps it had been Andrieux. More gunfire, punctuating screams. A torrent of people swept past, almost knocking him from his feet. He tightened his grip on the Beretta, pumped harder. Slid around the corner just as the dazed driver reached for the key. A blow from Tachyon's mind, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel, and the blare of the horn was added to the pandemonium.

Bonnell struggled from the car, gripping Blaise by the wrist. He went lurching and stumbling for a narrow, deserted side street.

Tach flew after them, caught Blaise by his free hand, and wrenched him free.