Aces High

  He shrugged out of his jacket, sat down on the couch, and stared out the window at the Kill and the lights of Staten Island. A freezing rain had begun. The droplets pinged against his windows with a sharp, crystalline sound, like forks tinging off empty wineglasses when the wedding guests want the newlyweds to kiss. Tom sat in the dark for a long time.

  Finally, he turned on a lamp and picked up the telephone. He punched six numbers, and couldn’t bring himself to hit the seventh. Like a high-school kid terrified of asking a pretty girl for a date, he thought, smiling grimly. He pressed the button down firmly, and listened to the ring.

  “Top Hat,” a gruff voice said.

  “I’d like to speak to Barbara Casko,” Tom said.

  “You mean the new Missus Bruder,” the voice replied.

  Tom took a long breath. “Yes,” he said.

  “Hey, the newlyweds left hours ago. Off for their wedding night.” The man was obviously drunk. “Going to Paris for the honeymoon.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “Is her father still there?”

  “I’ll look and see.”

  There was a long silence before the phone was picked up again. “This is Stanley Casko. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Tom Tudbury. I’m sorry I couldn’t attend, Mr. Casko. I was, uh, occupied.”

  “Yes, Tom. Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Couldn’t be better. I just wanted…”

  “Yes?”

  He swallowed. “Just tell her to be happy, okay? That’s all. Just tell her I want her to be happy.” He set the phone back in its cradle.

  Outside in the night, a big freighter was going down the Kill. It was too dark to see what flag it flew. Tom turned out the lights and watched it pass him by.

  Jube: Five

  THE TRACE WAS UNMISTAKABLE.

  Jube sat at his console as the readings crawled across his holocube, his hearts thundering away with fear and hope.

  He had spent most of his first four months on Earth in darkened movie theaters, sitting through the same films a dozen times, reinforcing his English and broadening his grasp of human cultural nuances as reflected in their fiction. He’d learned to love their movies, especially Westerns, and his favorite part had always been when the cavalry came thundering over the hill, all its banners flying.

  The Network flew no banners; still, Jube thought he could hear the faint sound of bugles and the pounding of hoofbeats in those spiderly twists of light within his holocube.

  Tachyons! Bugles and tachyons!

  His observation satellites had detected a wash of tachyons, and that could mean only one thing: a starship in near-Earth orbit. Deliverance was at hand.

  Now the satellites swept the skies for the source. It was not the Swarm Mother, Jhubben knew that. The Mother crept between the stars at speeds slower than light; time was nothing to her. Only the civilized races used tachyon-drive starships.

  If Ekkedme had gotten off a transmission before the singleship was smashed from the skies … if the Master Trader had decided to check on human progress earlier than planned … if the Mother had somehow been detected by some new technology undreamed of when Jhubben began his assignment on Earth … if, if, if … then it might well be the Opportunity up there, the Network returned to deliver this world, with only the means and price yet to be determined. It would not be easy even then, but of the ultimate result he had no doubt. Jube smiled as his satellites probed and his computers analyzed.

  Then the holocube turned violet, and his smile died. He made a low gurgly sound deep in the back of his throat.

  The sophisticated sensors in his satellites stripped away the screens that cloaked the starship from human instrumentation and displayed its image within the ominous violet of the cube. It revolved slowly, etched in lines of red and white light like some terrible construct of fire and ice. The readouts flashed below the image: dimensions, tachyon output, course. But everything Jube needed to know was written on the lines of the ship: written in every twisted spire, proclaimed by every fanciful excrescence, trumpeted by every baroque whorl and projection, shouted in that panoply of unnecessary lights.

  It looked like the results of a high-speed collision between a Christmas ornament and a prickly pear. Only the Takisians had such rococo aesthetics.

  Jube lurched to his feet. Takisians! Had Dr. Tachyon summoned them? He found that hard to believe, after all the years the doctor had spent in exile. What did it mean? Had Takis been monitoring Earth all this time, observing the wild card experiment even as the Network had? If so, why had Jhubben found no trace of them until now, and how had they managed to conceal themselves from Ekkedme? Would they destroy the Swarm Mother? Could they destroy the Mother? The Opportunity was roughly the size of Manhattan Island, and carried tens of thousands of specialists representing countless species, cultures, castes, and vocations—merchants and pleasurers, scientists and priests, technicians, artists, warriors, envoys. The Takisian craft was a tiny thing; it couldn’t possibly hold more than fifty sentients, perhaps only half that number. Unless Takisian military technology had progressed astronomically in the last forty years, what could that little thing hope to do, alone, against the devourer of worlds? And would the Takisians even care about the lives of their experimental animals?

  As Jhubben stared at the outlines of the ship with mounting rage and confusion, his phone rang.

  For an instant he thought insanely that somehow the Takisians had found him out, that they knew he was looking at them and had rung him up to castigate him. But that was ridiculous. He slammed a thumb into the console, and the holocube went dark as Jube thumped into the living room. He had to detour around the tortured geometries of the half-built tachyon transmitter that dominated the center of the room like some massive piece of avant-garde sculpture. If the thing didn’t work when he powered it up, Jube planned to title it “Joker Lust” and sell it to some gallery in Soho. Even half-assembled, its angles were curiously deceptive, and he was always bumping into it. This time he dodged around it neatly and took the phone from Mickey’s hand. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound his normal jovial self.

  “Jubal, this is Chrysalis.” It was her voice, but he had never heard her sound quite like this. She had never called him at home before either.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her. He’d asked her to procure another batch of microchips last week, and the edge in her voice made him afraid her agent had been apprehended.

  “Jay Ackroyd just phoned. He hasn’t been able to report until now. He found out a few things about the people who hired Darlingfoot.”

  “But that’s good. Has he located the bowling ball?”

  “No. And it’s not as good as you think. I know this sounds insane, but Jay says these people were convinced that body was extraterrestrial in origin. It appears they hoped to use the corpse in some kind of disgusting ritual, to gain power over that alien monster out there.”

  “The Swarm Mother,” Jube said in astonishment.

  “Yes,” Chrysalis said crisply. “Jay says they’re tied in somehow. He thinks they worship that thing. Look, we shouldn’t be talking about this over the phone.”

  “Why not?” Jube asked.

  “Because these people are dangerous,” Chrysalis said. “Jay is coming to the Palace tonight to give me a full report. Be there. I’m folding my cards on this one, Jubal. You can deal with Jay directly from now on. But if you’d like, I’ll ask Fortunato to drop by. I think he’d be interested in what Jay has turned up.”

  “Fortunato!” Jube was horrified. He knew Fortunato mostly by reputation. The tall pimp with the almond-shaped eyes and bulging forehead was a familiar sight at the Crystal Palace, but Jube had always made it a point to avoid him. Telepaths made him nervous. Dr. Tachyon never went into a mind without good reason, but Fortunato was another matter. Who knows how and why he might use his powers, or what he might do if he found out what Jube the Walrus really was? “No,” he said hurriedly, “no, absolutely not. This has nothing to do wi
th Fortunato!”

  “He knows more about these Masons than anyone else in the city,” Chrysalis said. She sighed. “Well, you’re paying for this funeral, so I suppose you get to pick the casket. I won’t say a word. We’ll talk after closing.”

  “After closing,” Jube repeated. She hung up before he could think to ask her what she had meant about Masons. Jube knew about the Masons, of course. He’d done a study of human fraternal organizations a decade ago, comparing the Shriners, Knights of Columbus, Odd Fellows, and Freemasons with each other and with the bonding-brotherhoods of the Thdentien moons. Reginald was a Mason, Jube seemed to recall, and Denton had tried to join the Elks, but they’d turned him down because of his antlers. What did the Masons have to do with anything?

  That day Jube was too uneasy to joke. Between Swarm Mothers, Takisian warships, and Masons, he hardly knew who to be afraid of. Even if the cavalry did come charging over the hill, Jube thought, would they be able to recognize the Indians? He glanced up at the sky and shook his head.

  When he locked up for the night he made his deliveries to the Funhouse and the Chaos Club, then decided to cut short his swing through Jokertown and head over to the Crystal Palace as soon as possible. But first he had to make one final stop, at the precinct house.

  The desk sergeant took a Daily News and flipped to the sports page, while Jube left a Times and a Jokertown Cry for Captain Black. He was turning to leave when the plainclothesman saw him. “Hey, fat boy,” the man called out. “You got an Informer?” He had been slouching on the bench along the tiled wall, almost as if he’d been waiting for someone. Jube knew him by sight: a scruffy, nondescript sort with an unpleasant smile. He’d never bothered to tell Jube his name, but he did show up at the newsstand once in a while to help himself to a tabloid. Sometimes he even paid.

  But not tonight. “Thanks,” he said, as he accepted the copy of the National Informer that Jube offered him. DID TAKISIANS INVENT HERPES? the banner screamed. It gave Jube a bad turn. Underneath, another story asked if Sean was about to jilt Madonna for Peregrine. The plainclothesman didn’t even glance at the headlines. He was staring at Jube oddly. The corner of his mouth twitched in a quirky little smile. “You’re just an ugly joker-boy, aren’t you?” the cop asked.

  Jube gave an ingratiating, tusky grin. “What, me ugly? Hell, I got bigger tits than Miss October!”

  “I’ve wasted enough time without listening to your asshole jokes,” the plainclothesman snapped. “But what did I expect? You’re not too bright, are you?”

  Bright enough to fool your kind for thirty-four years, Jube thought, but he didn’t say it. “Well, you know how many jokers it takes to turn on a light bulb,” he said.

  “Haul your greasy joker ass out of here,” the man said.

  Jube waddled to the door. At the top of the stairs, he turned back and yelled, “That paper’s on me!” before taking off for the Crystal Palace.

  He was early tonight, and the Palace was still crowded. Jube took a stool all the way at the end of the bar, where he could put his back right up against the wall and see the whole room. It was Sascha’s night off, and Lupo was tending bar. “What’ll it be, Walrus?” he asked, long red tongue lolling from one corner of his mouth.

  “Piña colada,” Jube said. “Double rum.”

  Lupo nodded and went off to mix it. Jube looked around carefully. He had an uneasy feeling, as if he were being watched. But who? The taproom was full of strangers, and Chrysalis was nowhere in sight. Three stools away, a big man in a lion mask was lighting a cigarette for a young girl whose low-cut evening gown displayed ample cleavage from three full breasts. Further down the bar a huddled shape in a gray shroud stared into his drink. A slender, vivacious green woman made eye contact when Jube glanced at her, and slid the tip of a pink tongue provocatively across her lower lip (at least it might have been provocative to a human male), but she was obviously a hooker, and he ignored her. Elsewhere in the room, he saw Yin-Yang, whose two heads were having a spirited argument, and Old Mister Cricket too. The Floater had passed out and was drifting about near the ceiling again. But there were so many faces and masks Jube did not recognize. Any one of them might be Jay Ackroyd. Chrysalis had never said what the man looked like, only that he was an ace. He might even be the man in lion mask, who—Jube noted with a glance—had now slipped an arm around the three-breasted girl and was brushing his fingertips lightly along the top of the breast on the right.

  Lupo mopped the bar, spun down a coaster, and put the piña colada on top of it. Jube had just taken his first sip when a stranger slid onto the barstool beside him. “Are you selling those newspapers?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Good.” The voice was muffled by his mask, a bone-white death’s head. He wore a black cowled cape over a threadbare suit that did very little for his skinny, hollow-chested body. “I’ll take a Cry, then.”

  Jube thought there was something unpleasant about his eyes. He looked away, found a copy of the Cry, handed it over. The cowled man gave him a coin. “What’s this?” Jube said.

  “A penny,” the man replied.

  The penny was larger than it should have been, and a vivid red against Jube’s blue-black palm. He’d never seen anything like it. “I don’t know if—”

  “Never mind,” the man interrupted. He took the penny out of Jube’s hand, and gave him a Susan B. Anthony dollar instead. “Where’s my change, Walrus?” he demanded. Jube gave him back three quarters. “You shortchanged me,” the man said nastily when he’d pocketed the coins.

  “I did not,” Jube told him with indignation.

  “Look me in the eye and say that, you two-bit jerk.”

  Behind the skull-faced man, the door opened and Troll ducked through into the taproom, followed by a short red-haired man in a lime-green suit. “Tachyon,” Jube said with apprehension, suddenly reminded of the Takisian warship up in orbit.

  Jube’s unpleasant companion twisted his head around so sharply that his cowl flopped down, revealing thin brown hair and a bad case of dandruff. He jerked to his feet, hesitated, and rushed for the door as soon as Tachyon and Troll had moved toward the back. “Hey!” Jube called after him, “hey, mister, your paper!” He’d left the Cry on the bar. The man went out so quickly he almost caught the end of his long black cape in the door. Jube shrugged and went back to his piña colada.

  Several hours and a dozen drinks later, Chrysalis had still not made an appearance, nor had Jube spotted anyone who looked like he imagined this Popinjay might look. When Lupo announced last call, Jube beckoned him over. “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Chrysalis?” Lupo asked. Deep red eyes sparkled on either side of his long, hairy snout. “Is she expecting you?”

  Jube nodded. “Got stuff to tell her.”

  “Okay,” Lupo said. “In the red room, third booth from the left. She’s with a friend.” He grinned. “Pretend you don’t see him, if you hear what I’m saying.”

  “Whatever she wants.” Jube thought the friend had to be Popinjay, but he didn’t say anything. He lowered himself carefully off the stool and went to the red room, off to the right of the main taproom. Inside, it was dim and smoky. The lights were red, the thick shag carpeting was red, and the heavy velvet drapes around the booths were a deep, rich burgundy. Most booths were empty at this time of night, but he could hear a woman moaning from one that was not. He went to the third booth from the left, pulled back the drape, and stuck his head inside.

  They had been talking in low, earnest tones, but now the conversation broke off abruptly. Chrysalis looked up at him. “Jubal,” she said crisply. “What can I do for you?”

  Jube looked at her companion, a compact sinewy white man in a black tee shirt and dark leather jacket. He wore the plainest of masks, a black hood that covered everything but his eyes. “You must be Popinjay,” Jube said, before he recalled that the detective did not like to be called by that name.

  “No,” the masked man replied, his voice surprisingly soft. He
glanced at Chrysalis. “We can resume this conversation later if you have business to transact.” He slid out of the booth and walked off without another word.

  “Get in,” Chrysalis said. Jube sat down and pulled the drapes closed. “Whatever you have for me, I hope it’s good.” She sounded distinctly annoyed.

  “Have for you?” Jube was confused. “What do you mean? Where’s Popinjay, shouldn’t he be here by now?”

  She stared at him. Sheathed in transparent flesh and ghost-gray muscles, her skull reminded Jube of the unpleasant man who’d sat next to him at the bar. “I wasn’t aware you knew Jay. What does he have to do with anything? Is there something about Jay that I need to know?”

  “The report,” Jube blurted. “He was going to tell us about these Masons who hired Devil John to steal that body from the morgue. They were dangerous, you said.”

  Chrysalis laughed at him, drew back the privacy curtains, and rose languidly. “Jubal, I don’t know how many exotic rum drinks you’ve indulged in tonight, but I suspect it was a few too many. That’s always a problem when Lupo is behind the bar. Sascha can tell when a customer has had enough, but not our little wolf-boy. Go home and sleep it off.”

  “Go home!” Jube said. “But what about the body, what about Devil John and these Masons…”

  “If you want to join a lodge, the Odd Fellows would suit you better, I’d think,” Chrysalis said in a bored tone. “Other than that, I don’t have the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.”

  The walk home was long and hot, and Jube had an uneasy feeling, as if he were being watched. He stopped and looked around furtively several times, to try and catch whoever was following him, but there was never anyone in sight.

  Down in the privacy of his apartment, Jube immersed himself gratefully in his cold tub, and turned on his television. The late movie was Thirty Minutes Over Broadway!, but it wasn’t the Howard Hawks version, it was the awful 1978 remake with Jan-Michael Vincent as Jetboy and Dudley Moore doing a comic-relief Tachyon in a hideous red wig. Jube found himself watching it anyway; mindless escape was exactly what he needed. He would worry about Chrysalis and the rest of it tomorrow.