Ace in the Hole by George R. R. Martin
Peanut was looking forlornly at Gregg, the moist eyes trapped in folds of hard, furrowed skin, the flowers drooping in his lone hand. Puppetman could feel the undiluted admiration swelling from the slow-witted joker, underlaid with a surprisingly deep sorrow for what had happened to Ellen.
“I’m really sorry to cause trouble, Senator,” Peanut said. He looked as if he were about to cry, glancing from Gregg to Marvin to the impassive gaze of Colin. “I thought maybe she might like them … I know they ain’t much, but…”
“They’re very pretty,” Gregg told him. “You’re Peanut, aren’t you?”
Pride swelled in Peanut at the recognition. He tried to smile, and skin cracked around the mouth. He nodded, shyly.
Gregg held his hand out for the flowers. “Marvin’s overdoing his job,” he said without looking at the guard. “No one needs protection from compassion and caring.” Puppetman felt Marvin’s cold rage at that, and Puppetman licked at the emotion eagerly, saturating it. “Ellen will be proud to have your flowers, Peanut,” Gregg continued, holding out his hand. “I’ll make sure she gets them. In fact, there’s a space at the foot of her bed where she’ll see them when she wakes up. I’ll tell the nurse to put them there.”
Peanut handed the flowers to Gregg. The joker’s mind was glowing with yellow-white pride, overflowing with azure hero-worship. “Thank you, Senator,” he blurted out, ducking his head. “Thank you. You … well, everyone out there loves you. We all know you’ll win.”
Gregg gave the flowers to Colin. He hugged Peanut for a moment, then smiled at Marvin. “I’m sure Marvin will be glad to get you a taxi to wherever you’re going, won’t you, Marvin?”
Ah, the hatred. Marvin’s gaze was daggered. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.” He bit off the end of each word. “I’ll take real good care of him.”
“Good. Thank you again, Peanut, and thank you from Ellen. She’ll love them.” He glanced at his watch. “And I really need to be running. Peanut, it was good to see you again. Colin—”
They walked away.
Puppetman rode with Marvin.
Gregg closed his eyes in the back of the limo as they rode to the Marriott, relishing Marvin’s fury and Peanut’s pain as, behind the Dumpster in the back of the hospital, the security guard beat the crap out of the joker.
It was a nice little snack.
6:00 P.M.
Spector had gone to Piedmont Park after leaving the Marriott. He just wandered around, unnoticed, among the jokers. He’d never seen so many happy freaks in all his life. They were singing, and hugging, and kissing each other. Those that could kiss, anyway. They must have been partying all night, since at least half of the crowd had found some shade to take a nap in. If they’d known what he was going to do, or try to do, later on, they’d have torn him into a thousand pieces.
He’d eventually gotten bored of it and walked over to Oakland Cemetery. He strolled around among the marble monuments and weathered headstones, reading the inscriptions on them and hoping for inspiration. But none came. He was just killing time, and he knew it.
He caught a cab and went to his motel, cleaned up, and took another cab to the hospital. He’d finished off the bottle of whiskey and bought another. He’d had a few slugs from it already, hoping to calm his nerves.
He walked up to the main desk and motioned to the woman behind it. She nodded and walked over. She was middle aged, slightly overweight, and had mousy brown hair in a tight bun. “What room is Dr. Tachyon in?” He flashed her his fake press card.
“Can’t you leave that poor man alone?” she said, shaking her head.
“Sorry, lady. Your job’s compassion; mine’s the news.” Spector put the card away. “You let me know his room number, and I won’t try to stop you feeling sorry for him. Fair enough?”
“435,” she said, lowering her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said, turning away. “It’s in the public interest, believe me.”
The hospital was so completely different from the one Tony had been in, they might have been on different planets. The walls and floors were spotless. There was almost none of the disinfectant smell you normally got in hospitals, and no stink of jokers at all. There were paintings on the walls and the woman on the PA system sounded like something from a wet dream.
He stopped outside the room, made sure no one was looking, and took another quick slug of whiskey. He shook his arms like an athlete loosening up, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
What he saw almost made him laugh. Tachyon was facing away from him. He was wearing a blue hospital robe slit up the back and his little white ass was showing. He was holding a bedpan with his one good hand, and his prick was dangling over it. Nothing was happening. At the end of his other arm was a gauze-covered stump. Spector couldn’t manage to be afraid of this pathetic little thing. He closed the door.
The crippled alien didn’t even turn to look at him. “Please, just another few minutes. I know I can manage something. Maybe if you run some water for me.”
“Turn it on yourself, Doc.”
Tachyon jumped and quickly covered himself. “By the Ideal, have you no shred…” He turned and saw Spector, then closed his mouth and stared wide-eyed. “You!”
Spector walked quickly over to the bed and took away the little box used to summon a nurse. “You won’t be needing this.”
Tachyon turned away from Spector and tried to pull himself toward the far corner of the bed.
“Careful, you’ll pull your IV out.” Spector pointed to the tube that ended in a needle in the Takisian’s arm. “I’m here for your help.”
Tachyon shook his head in horror. “No. James, you mustn’t. I can’t allow it.”
“Can’t fucking allow it?” Spector kept his voice quiet, but there was no concealing the contempt. “If anybody deserves to die, it’s Hartmann. I need you to mind-control some people and get me close. I’ll do the rest.”
“James, please,” Tachyon still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I beg you … don’t do this. An autopsy … the scandal.” Tachyon gathered himself before continuing. “They would run mad. Hunt down every wild card. Quarantine them.”
Spector wasn’t going to waste his breath arguing. He reached down, grabbed Tachyon’s stump, and squeezed. He put a hand over the Takisian’s mouth to muffle the scream. Tachyon bit into his palm, drawing blood. Spector let go. “Watch this, Doc.” He held his hand in front of Tachyon’s face and watched the wound close over.
“Ancestors,” Tachyon gasped.
“Don’t know everything about me after all, do you? Now show some guts for a fucking change. Do the autopsy yourself. Or mind-control the people who do. Use your goddamn power for something other than getting little hero-worshiping bitches to suck your alien weenie.” Spector turned Tachyon loose and took a step back.
Tachyon shook his head. “You don’t understand. Need rest. Peace.” The little alien seemed on the edge of hysteria. “Only rest will be the peace of the grave.”
It was the wrong thing for Tachyon to say and it pushed Spector over the edge. He slapped the alien hard, but not as hard as he wanted to. “You feel that? Well that’s nothing compared to what I have to live with every minute of every day. For the rest of my life.” Spector leaned in. “I killed a little girl once. Just to see her mother’s face when she found her. And I thought of you.” It was a lie, but Spector wanted to give the knife as many turns as he could. “If you don’t help me, there’ll be lots more. You owe me, Doc. Christ, what you did to me. You’ll owe me forever.”
“I’m sorry,” Tachyon said, pulling the pillow over his head with his one good hand. “But I can’t.”
“I should have known.” Spector got up and headed for the door, looked at the TV and stopped. Someone was interviewing the joker Secret Service guy who’d been in Tony’s room.
“Then, all those on the podium during Senator Hartmann’s acceptance speech will be wearing masks?” The reporter asking the question was standing as far away from Colin
The joker cleared his throat. “Yes, those are the senator’s wishes. He feels it would make a certain statement to the American public.”
“You, too?” the reporter asked.
“Yes, I’ve had occasion to wear them in the past.” Colin looked like he wanted to take the reporter’s head off. “Old habits die hard. And like most of us, I’m a creature of habit.”
Tachyon groaned behind him, but Spector barely noticed. So, Tony had sold his boss on the mask idea. A group of masked people on stage was a whole new ball game. He might not even need the little creep.
Spector walked over and handed him the bedpan. “When I’m done with Hartmann, I’m coming after you.”
He heard piss hitting the pan as he left the room.
Spector laughed. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Tach lay on his side, the mangled arm propped on a pile of pillows. There was the strong smell of urine, and the sheets were damp beneath his hip. He had been shaking so hard that he had put most of his load in the bed. He tried to marshal his scattered thoughts.
Oh, Ideal, James Spector, the man who could literally kill with a look. I should have mind-controlled him … captured him. But I was scared.
He thought of what his father would have said to that admission. It would not have been kind. Princes in the House Ilkazam did not admit to fear.
James was going to kill Hartmann, and then there would be an autopsy, and then the world would end.
Too bad about Troll and Father Squid and Arachne and Spots and Video and Finn and Elmo—no, Elmo would miss the backlash against the wild cards. He was going to Attica for a murder he didn’t commit, and Tach knew what they did to jokers in Attica. Too bad about all of them.
And him, too.
Blaise was gone. Jail loomed ahead, for the investigation Hartmann had launched would live on after him. Didn’t they still execute people for espionage? And I had to become an American citizen. But he would never see jail, Spector would kill him first.
He could always phone the Secret Service. Warn them about Spector. But then Hartmann becomes president. But was that so bad? I could monitor him, control him perhaps. Stupid! He’ll only kill me. He’s tried already. He won’t rest now until he succeeds.
But the wild cards would be safe.
No, too many people knew. Jay and Jack and Hiram, Digger, Sara, George, and Spector. Hartmann would try to have them all killed, and in self-defense they would speak. And if the backlash would be horrendous now it would be unimaginable once the man was president.
I don’t know what to do! Ideal, what should I do?
Nothing. He was too tired. Too miserable. Too sick.
He closed his eyes, and grimly went searching for the anesthesia of sleep. The pain killers lay like a blurring fog across his mind, but the pain ate through them like acid.
“It’s not so bad. It doesn’t hurt so bad. It’ll be all right.”
And—surprisingly—Tach agreed with the soft voice. He forced open gummy lids, and stared up into Josh Davidson’s face.
“Hello. How are you feeling?”
“Better now. I thought everyone had abandoned me.”
“Sometimes people get reminded of the obligations and duties of friendship.” Davidson’s nose wrinkled at the sour odor of urine.
“I wet the bed,” said Tach, miserable and embarrassed.
“Then we should get the bed changed. Let me help you.” Davidson lowered the rail, got an arm around Tachyon’s waist, and a grip on the IV unit, and helped him into a chair. “Wait, I’ll be right back.”
He returned moments later with a nurse. She stripped and remade the bed. Davidson seemed impatient for her to leave. The door swung shut behind her. The actor seated himself across the small table, reached into his coat pocket, and took out a pocket chess set.
“I thought we might have a quick game.” He palmed a pawn of each color, hid them behind his back, then offered two closed fists to Tachyon.
Tach started to reach out with his right hand. Both men froze and stared at the gauze-covered stump. “Left,” Tachyon said.
Davidson’s fingers uncurled, revealing a black pawn. “Here, wait, I’ll set it up for you.” There was a catch in the actor’s mellifluous voice.
Davidson opened pawn to king-four. They played a few moves in silence. Then Tachyon looked up. “The Evans gambit. That’s a very old-fashioned opening,” he said, shifting slightly because the vinyl on the chair was sticking to his bare bottom. “I had a friend who always used that opening.”
“Oh?”
“No one you would know.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone now. Long gone. Like all the rest.”
“Maybe not,” said Davidson. Tach laid the tip of his left forefinger on the knight. “You don’t want to do that. The bishop would be better,” the actor murmured.
The alien switched pieces, and …
“David! David! DavidDavidDavidDavidDavid.”
The IV drip had ripped from his hand as he threw himself on the man opposite him. And his weakness betrayed him. He could not keep his feet. David Harstein caught him beneath the armpits, and they huddled on the floor.
The tweed coat was rough against his skin. Catching on the stubble that littered his cheeks. He was wailing like a three-year-old, but he couldn’t stop. David’s hand was softly stroking his curly hair.
“Hush. It’s all right now.”
And of course it was because such had been the Envoy’s power.
“Oh, David, you’ve come back to me.”
“Only for a little while, Tach.” The Takisian stiffened. “I’m old, Tachy. Someday I’ll die.” They sat silent for a few moments, then David shook off the mood and said, “Let’s get you back to bed.”
“No, no, this is fine. Talk to me. Tell me everything. Those beautiful, beautiful girls—yours?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty proud of them.”
“Do they know?”
“Yes, my family’s been a pillar for me. I was so bitter when I got out of prison. The government tried to recruit me for their covert ace operations.” The mobile mouth twisted. “I ran, and David Harstein died, and Josh Davidson was born. I had a new identity, but all the old hate remained. Then I met Rebecca. She took away the hurt. They’ve never betrayed me.” The man’s dark eyes were thoughtful and distant.
“Jack is … What I mean is he has…”
“It’s all right, Tach. Braun and I have found common ground, to quote our vice-presidential nominee. And Braun reminded me that maybe we do have an obligation.” He paused, considering for a long moment. “Last night, when we all thought you were going to die, I realized that just knowing you resided in the same world with me was a strange kind of anchor. A comfort. Rebecca reminded me that … well, that knowing I was alive might be a comfort to you.”
“It is,” Tachyon sighed, taking a tighter grip on David’s lapel.
“I’ve spent thirty years admiring and envying those aces who had the courage to use their powers,” Harstein mused.
“You had the courage.”
“Yes, but not the wisdom.”
“That is always the problem, is it not?”
“What are you thinking?” the Envoy asked as he studied that thin chiseled face.
“Which is the most important, David? Love, honor, courage, duty?”
“Love,” said the actor promptly.
Tach patted his cheek. “Gentle one.”
“And for you?”
“Honor and duty. I must get to the Omni, David. Will you help me?”
“Tachyon, you’re in no condition.”
“I know that, but needs must…”
“Will you tell me why?”
“I cannot. Will you help me?”
“What a question.”
7:00 P.M.
Spector hid behind the bed and hoped what Colin had said about being a creature of habit was true. Hastings?
He heard soft footfalls stop in front of the door. Spector crouched down behind the bed. The door opened. Shut. He heard someone sniffing the air. Spector stuck his head up. The joker was reaching for his gun. Spector made eye contact and pushed hard. Colin’s legs folded up underneath him and he made a strangled little noise, then he fell over dead.
Spector had tried to make it quick. The brief conversation he’d had with the joker didn’t give him any cause to dislike the guy. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. As Spector kneeled next to the body, he noticed something that he’d missed before. Colin’s hair had a pronounced oily sheen. It definitely wasn’t hair dressing, and more likely was just a by-product of his being a joker. Spector had washed his own hair earlier in the day and it was dry as a bone. He rubbed his hands over the corpse’s head, then through his own hair. After repeating the procedure a few times Spector’s hair had the same look as Colin’s. Also, unfortunately, the same litter-box smell.
Spector rifled the body. Colin was carrying ID, a gun, an earpiece, and even a mask. Spector thought back to the beginning of the week in the dusty mask factory. It seemed more like a month.
He pulled off the joker’s clothes and then his own. A few minutes later he was ready. The suit was a little loose and the gun strap tugged uncomfortably at his shoulder, but he’d live with it. He went into the bathroom and put on the mask, then stepped back from the mirror and looked at himself. It was close to perfect. The oily hair really made the difference.
He carefully dragged the joker’s body to the shower stall and dumped it on top of Hastings. He wouldn’t want to be the maid who finally got to clean the place up.