Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  “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 off 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 self-conscious smile flashed again. “I’m going to tell her I’m sorry, too. Good-bye 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.

  11:00 A.M.

  “I don’t need it!”

  “Stop being such a royal asshole, your Takisian excellency.” Jack unfolded the chair and placed it by Tachyon’s hotel bed.

  “I’ve managed all morning without you or that damned wheelchair.”

  “Yeah, and look at you, you look like something the cat threw up.”

  “You should be out looking for Blaise,” Tachyon said. He was propped up on pillows suffering whitely.

  Jack sighed. “The police are looking for him. The FBI has been alerted. Even that fatuous jerk Straight Arrow is poking around. What can I do that they can’t?”

  Tachyon’s face was haunted. His one hand clutched the bedcovers. “I must find my grandson. I must. He’s all I have left.”

  Jack sat on the room chair, and reached for a cigarette. “The police say he was with that Popinjay guy, that Jay Ackroyd, at the hospital Saturday night after your operation. They were watching the TV in the waiting room. One of the nurses remembers that something on the TV caught their attention, and that Popinjay turned to Blaise and said, ‘You wanna go play detective?’ Or words to that effect.”

  “Ideal.” Tachyon bit his lip. “If Popinjay has involved my grandchild in one of his intrigues…”

  “The police are trying to find out what channel they were tuned to.” Jack shook his head. “I wasn’t any help there either. I was partying Saturday night.” Depression invaded him. “I thought the right candidate had got the nomination.”

  “I have been trying to phone Hiram,” Tachyon said. “I thought he might have seen Blaise, but he’s vanished too.”

  “He left yesterday morning.”

  “No he didn’t. I inquired, and he hasn’t checked out of the hotel.”

  “I saw him in the lobby. He was carrying a trunk.”

  Tachyon frowned. “Jay and Hiram are the closest of friends. If Ackroyd were in trouble, Hiram would be the person to whom he would turn.” Tach dropped into a thoughtful silence.

  “Since they’re all missing they aren’t going to be very much help to us. What you need is some rest.”

  Tachyon leaned back against the pillows. “You are right.” He closed his eyes. “Perhaps I should try again to detect Blaise’s mind signature. Would you please turn out the lights? It might help my concentration.” Almost inaudibly he added, “I am weary. So very weary.”

  “Will it disturb you if I have a belt of bourbon?”

  “Not at all.”

  Jack turned out the light, leaving only the trickle of sunlight coming in under the drapes, and then he carried his cigarette in the direction of the bottles on Tachyon’s table. He put some ice in a glass, then reached in the near darkness for one of the bottles. It turned out to be James Spector’s ashes. He put the urn down and picked up another bottle. It seemed to have liquid of the right color. He poured.

  Scotch. Damn.

  It was sure one of those days.

  It all felt very strange.

  Gregg didn’t know the Secret Service guards who rode with him in the rented limo on the way to Ellen’s hospital. Their faces were unfamiliar and they didn’t speak to him. They were strangers, hidden and masked by dark glasses, dark blue suits, and dark frowns.

  They would always be strangers. Their minds were locked away and Gregg no longer had the key to open them.

  It felt very strange to be so silent in his own head, to be unable to sense the tidal flow of feelings around him, to find it impossible to swim in the bright salt ocean of emotion, to be powerless to change its swift currents.

  This must be what it’s like to go suddenly blind or deaf or mute. Then: Puppetman? he mind-called again, and again there was only the echo of his own thoughts.

  Dead. Gone. Gregg sighed, feeling lost and sad and hopeful all at once, looking at the people around him, touching him, and yet isolated. Apart.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to that.

  All he wanted to do was get away from the furnace of Atlanta, to go back home and be alone and think. To see if he could heal some of the wounds and begin again.

  It wasn’t my fault. Not really. It was Puppetman and he’s dead. That should be punishment enough.

  Gregg didn’t know exactly what he was going to say to Ellen. She, at least, had tried to comfort him yesterday. She, at least, had said that it was okay, that it didn’t matter, that it would all be all right again. But behind the words, he knew she wanted to know why, and he didn’t know how to explain it. Part of him ached to simply let the horrible, awful truth spill out and beg forgiveness. Ellen cared for him. He knew that from Puppetman; he had seen her love given to him even without the power’s help.

  Yes,
he’d give her a part of the truth at least. He’d tell her that yes, he was an ace, that he’d abused his abilities to enhance his own power, that he’d manipulated people. Yes, even her.

  But not all of it. Some of it couldn’t be said. Not the death and the pain and the violence. Not what he’d done to her and their own child.

  Not that, because then there’d be no hope at all. Ellen was the one thing Gregg could salvage from this wreckage. Ellen was the only person who would help him find a path.

  Gregg needed her. He knew just how desperate that need was from the churning in his stomach and the cold fear in his gut.

  “Senator? We’re here.”

  They were at the side entrance of the hospital. The Secret Service riding in back with him pushed open the doors. Heat and sunshine hit Gregg like a fist as he got out, blinking behind his sunglasses. He leaned back into the cool, leather-scented interior to speak to the chauffeur. “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” he told him. “We’re just going to get Ellen and her things—”

  “Senator,” one of the bodyguards outside said. “Isn’t that her?”

  Gregg straightened to see Ellen being wheeled out of the hospital behind a clot of reporters, her own Secret Service personnel keeping back the flurry of videocams and cameras. Gregg frowned, puzzled.

  The heat rippling up from the blacktop went cold: behind Ellen, he could see Sara. She was standing inside, her face pressed against the glass doors.

  “No,” Gregg whispered. He half ran to Ellen, the Secret Service men pushing a path through the reporters around her. He saw her bag, sitting alongside the wheelchair.

  She stood as he approached. Gregg smiled for the cameras and tried to ignore the specter of Sara just a few feet away.

  “Darling,” he said to her. “Did Amy call—?”

  Ellen looked into his face and his voice trailed off. Her examination of him was long and intense. Then she looked away. Her mouth was a straight, tight line, her dark eyes were stern and solemn, and a bitter loathing lurked behind them.

  “I don’t know if it’s all true, what Sara said,” Ellen husked out. “I don’t know, but I can see something in you, Gregg. I only wish I’d seen it years ago.” She was crying now, oblivious or uncaring of the reporters circled around them. “Damn you, Gregg. Damn you forever for what you did.”

  Her hand lashed out unexpectedly. The slap jerked Gregg’s head around and brought tears of pain to his own eyes. He fingered the crimson flush on his cheek, stunned.

  He could hear the cameras and the excited buzz of the reporters. “Ellen, please…” he began, but she wasn’t listening.

  “I need time, Gregg. I need to be away from you.” She took her bag and strode past him toward a waiting car. Behind the glass doors, Sara snagged Gregg’s eyes as his hand dropped from his burning face.

  Bastard, she mouthed silently, and turned away.

  “Ellen!” Gregg wheeled around, the image of Sara’s accusation staying with him. “Ellen!”

  She wouldn’t look back. The driver placed her bag in the trunk. Her guards held the door open for her.

  With Puppetman, Gregg could have made her stop. He could have had her run back into his arms in a glorious, happy reconciliation.

  With Puppetman, he could have written a happy ending.

  Ellen got into the car and slumped back against the seat.

  They drove away.

  12:00 NOON

  The maître d’ was waiting in vain for his C-note. The hotel had emptied out, and the Bello Mondo was no longer crowded.

  Jack had brought Tachyon to lunch, but he couldn’t make him eat. Half a sole filet was abandoned on the plate. Jack finished off his New York cut.

  “Eat, eat, my child. As my mom used to say in German.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Build up your strength.”

  Tach glared at him. “Of the two of us,” he said, “which one is the doctor?”

  “Which one of us is the patient?”

  Tachyon’s answer was stony silence. Jack took a drink—bourbon at last. Tachyon’s violet eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Jack. My anxiety has rubbed away my manners.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I owe you my thanks. For this. For trying to find Blaise.”

  “I only wish I could find him.” Jack put his elbows on the table and sighed. “I’d like something good to come out of everything we’ve been through.”

  “There might be something.”

  “A George Bush presidency, that’s for sure.” Jack stared at his plate. “That’s the last political activity you’re going to see from me. Every time I try to change the world, everything goes into the crapper.”

  Tachyon shook his head. “I have no thoughts to comfort you, Jack.”

  “All I did was screw up. I even died, for god’s sake. And the one thing I did right, I did for the wrong man.” He took another drink. “I guess I’m about as confused as I’ve ever been. Hell.” Another drink. “At least I’m rich. In this world, you can always fall back on money.”

  Jack leaned back against the cushion. “Maybe I’ll write my memoirs. Get it all down. Then I’ll maybe know what it means, if anything.”

  Memoirs, he thought. God, was he already that old?

  When Jetboy died, he’d been twenty-two and looking younger. He hadn’t aged since then.

  At least he’d seen a few things. Been a movie star. Changed the world, back before the roof fell in. Saved a lot of lives in Korea, and that was after he’d become a world-class fuckup. He’d even seen The Jolson Story.

  As good a place as any, he reflected, to start his memoirs. When Jetboy died, I was watching The Jolson Story.

  No one said anything for a long while. Jack realized that Tachyon had drowsed off. He paid the tab, then pushed the wheelchair out of the restaurant and headed for the elevators.

  On the way Jack saw the man who’d been selling gliders in the mall, table folded and his merchandise in a pair of paper sacks, talking to a friend. Jack parked the chair, then bought the entire line. When he came back, carrying his gliders, he saw that Tachyon was awake. He held up the gliders. “For Blaise,” he said. “When we find him.”

  “Bless you, Jack.”

  For the first time in a week, Jack got an elevator right away. He pressed Tachyon’s floor and the surge of vertigo as the glass elevator took off almost took him off his feet. To keep his mind off heights, he began assembling a glider.

  A foam Earl Sanderson looked sternly at him from behind his flying goggles. Jack wondered dimly if, even after all these years, he had anything at all to say to Earl.

  Besides an apology, of course. Better start with the basics.

  The elevator lurched, and Jack’s stomach lurched with it. The doors opened, and with a shock Jack saw David Harstein step into the elevator.

  Tachyon was rolling a guilty white-rimmed eye at him. Jack had a feeling his own face held the same expression of stupid, overdone innocence.

  “You know,” Tachyon said.

  “You know?” Jack replied.

  “Hey, we all know,” corrected David with hearty bonhomie.

  The glass box lurched for the sky. Jack’s stomach lurched with it. He could feel the sweat popping out on his forehead. He searched for something to say.

  The elevator slammed to a stop again. The door opened and Fleur van Renssaeler stepped aboard, looking over her shoulder and waving good-bye to a friend. The door closed, and Fleur turned.

  Everyone stopped breathing for a long moment. The elevator staggered upward. Suddenly Tachyon lashed out with his right arm, striking the STOP button with his bandaged stump.

  The alien let out an animal-like howl of pain. David knelt quickly by the wheelchair as the elevator jerked to a halt. “Hush, it doesn’t hurt.”

  And of course it didn’t. Or at least it didn’t matter.

  Tachyon blinked hard to clear the moisture from his eyes.

  “David Harstein,” said Fleur, her voice e
xpressionless.

  Tach felt a chill go through him.

  “Just now I remembered from when I was little.” Fleur gave a thin smile. “The man who lost China to the Reds. And all these years you’ve just been hiding under that beard.”

  Smiling again, she turned to Jack. “An old friend of the family,” she said scornfully.

  The big ace yanked out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said weakly.

  The glider of Earl Sanderson held limp, forgotten in Jack’s hand. Tachyon reached out, and took it. He laid it gently in his lap.

  “I count myself in nothing else so happy,” David said, “as in a soul remembering my good friends.”

  Tach looked up at him. “Yes, all the ghosts have gathered.”

  Fleur stared hollow eyed at Tachyon. “I am not my mother!”

  “You have your father’s eyes,” David said, his voice gentle.

  It was a simple statement. No accusation. No hidden meaning. It left her confused, uncertain, the belligerence draining out of her. “You don’t know me,” Fleur whispered.

  “No,” David said. “Sadly.”

  For a moment Fleur looked like she wanted to hug him. In fact, Tachyon wanted to hug him. Silence spun like cobwebs between the four of them. Fleur stared into David’s compassionate dark eyes. Tears welled up, and spilled slowly down her cheeks. But the fear came back. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, and backed away. “No, don’t do this to me.”

  Tachyon sighed. “We must speak, Fleur.”

  “I’m going to scream.” Her voice was a frightened thread.

  “Please don’t,” David said. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Fleur quieted, but still managed to say, “No, I do have something to be afraid of. I’m alone with all of you.”

  “Are we so fearsome?” David asked. “An old actor, a one-handed man…” He glanced back at Jack. “… and a weenie.”

  “Hey,” Jack began, but then he paused and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he considered and then acknowledged the truth of Harstein’s words.

  Fleur hugged her elbows. “You don’t understand. You honestly don’t understand, do you?” The three men stared at her. “You stand there with these powers that can hurt us and twist us, and you wonder why we’re afraid.”