At last they noticed him. Hiram staring at him with dread, Ackroyd with shuttered, snake-like eyes.
“It … it’s not true, is it?” Hiram said desperately. “Tell me that it’s all some hideous mistake, Gregg can’t be…”
Pity filled him for the loss of dreams, and the shattering of faith. “Hiram,” Tach said softly. “My poor, poor Hiram. I saw his mind. I touched the Puppetman.” The horror of it returned again, and Tachyon shuddered. “It is a thousand times worse than we could ever have imagined.”
The strength drained from his legs, and Tach sat on the carpet, buried his head in his hands, and began to weep. Through his misery he heard Hiram say, “God forgive me.”
What has He to forgive you for? I should have seen. Twenty years! I should have realized. I should have known!
Wracking sobs made his chest ache. Tachyon realized he was spiraling into hysterics. Grimly he reached for control, and the sobs began to subside.
“What are we going to do?” asked Hiram.
“Blow the whistle,” Jay said.
Tachyon bounded to his feet. “No!” he said. “Are you mad, Ackroyd? The public must never learn the truth.”
“Hartmann’s a monster,” Jay objected.
“No one knows that better than I,” said Tachyon. “I swam in the sewer of his mind. I felt the vileness that lives inside him, the Puppetman. It touched me. You can’t imagine what that was like.”
“I’m not a telepath,” Jay said. “So sue me. I’m still not going to help you whitewash Hartmann.”
“You do not understand,” Tachyon said. “For close to two years Leo Barnett has been filling the public ear with dire warnings about wild card violence, inflaming their fears and their mistrust of aces. Now you propose we tell them that he was right all along, that a monstrous secret ace has indeed subverted their government. How do you think they will react?”
Jay shrugged. “Okay, so Barnett gets elected, big deal. So we have a right-wing dork in the White House for four years. We managed to survive Reagan for eight.”
Tachyon was stunned by this stupidity. “You cannot know the half of what I found in Hartmann’s mind. The murders, the rapes, the atrocities, and him always at the center of his web, the Puppetman pulling his strings. I warn you, if the full story ever becomes known, the public revulsion will touch off a reign of terror that will make the persecutions of the fifties look like nothing.” The alien gesticulated wildly. “He killed his own unborn child, and feasted on the pain and terror of its death. And his puppets … aces, jokers, politicians, religious leaders, police, anyone foolish enough to touch him. If their names become known—”
“Tachyon,” Hiram Worchester interrupted. His voice was low, but anguish sobbed in every syllable.
Tachyon glanced guiltily at Hiram.
“Tell me,” Hiram said. “These … puppets. Was … was I … one of…” He couldn’t finish, choking on the words.
Tachyon nodded. A small quick nod. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He turned away.
Behind him Tach heard Hiram say, “In a grotesque way, it’s almost funny,” but he did not laugh. “Jay, he’s right. This must be our secret.”
When he turned around Tach found Ackroyd looking from Hiram to himself, and back again. The detective’s eyes were bitter. “Do what you want,” he said, “just don’t expect me to vote for the fucker. Even if I was registered.”
Suddenly Tach realized this was too important. He could not rely upon only their unsupported word. “We must take a vow,” Tachyon said. “A solemn oath, to do everything in our power to stop Hartmann, and to take this secret to our graves.”
“Oh, gimme a break,” Jay groaned.
“Hiram, that glass,” the alien snapped. Hiram handed him the half-finished drink, and Tachyon upended the contents on the carpet. He bent, slid the long knife out of his boot sheath, and held it up in front of the fascinated and aghast humans. “We must pledge by blood and bone,” he said.
His grip on the hilt was slick with sweat, but he slashed hard across his left wrist. He was pleased that his only reaction was a soft almost inaudible intake of breath. Perhaps Earth had not softened him as much as he feared. Tach held the wound over the glass until there was an inch of blood on the bottom, then bound his wrist in a handkerchief and passed the knife to Ackroyd.
The detective just looked at it. “You got to be kidding.”
“No.”
“How about I just piss in it instead?” Jay suggested.
“The blood is the bond.”
Hiram stepped forward. “I’ll do it,” he said, taking the knife. He shrugged out of his white linen coat, rolled up his sleeve, and made the cut. The pain made him inhale sharply, but his hand did not hesitate.
“So deep,” Tachyon muttered. The cut was deep enough to be dangerous. Was Hiram so devastated by the betrayal that suicide seemed an option? Hiram winced and held his hand above the glass. The red line crept upward.
Tachyon bent a stern eye on Ackroyd.
Jay sighed deeply. “So if you two are Huck and Tom, I guess that makes me Nigger Jim,” he said. “Remind me to have my head examined when all of this is over.” He took the knife, and yelped as the blade bit into the skin.
Accepting the snifter from the sweating Jay, Tachyon swirled the glass to mix the bloods one with the other, then lifted it above his head and chanted in Takisian. “By Blood and Bone, I so vow,” he finished. He threw back his head, and drained a third of the glass in one long gulp.
Tachyon thrust the glass at Hiram. Both the humans looked nauseated.
“By Blood and Bone,” Hiram intoned, and took his ritual swallow.
“Am I allowed to add some tabasco, maybe a little vodka?” Jay asked when Hiram gave him what was left.
Ackroyd’s wisecracks were beginning to wear a little thin. “You are not,” said Tachyon stiffly.
“Pity,” Jay said. “Always liked Bloody Marys.” He lifted the glass, muttered, “Blood and Bone,” and drank the last of the blood. “Yum,” he said afterward.
“It is done,” Tachyon said. “Now, we must make plans.”
“I’m going back to the Omni,” Hiram announced. “I was among Gregg’s earliest supporters, and I daresay I am not without influence in the New York delegation. I may be able to have some impact. We must deny him the nomination, at all costs.”
“Agreed,” said Tachyon.
“I wish I knew more about Dukakis…” Hiram began.
“Not Dukakis,” the alien said. “Jesse Jackson. He has been courting us all along. I’ll speak to him.” He clasped hands with Hiram. “We can do it, my friend.”
“Real good,” Jay said. “So Greggie doesn’t get to be president. Big deal. What about all his victims? Kahina, Chrysalis, the rest of them.”
Tachyon glanced over. “Not Chrysalis,” he said, not believing he had forgotten to tell them this.
“What?” Jay croaked.
“He threatened Chrysalis, yes,” the alien said. “He made her and Digger watch while his creature tortured and killed Kahina, but he never acted on that threat. When he heard of her death on Monday morning, he was as surprised as anyone.”
“No fucking way,” Jay said. “You got it wrong.”
Nostrils tightening in fury Tachyon pulled himself up to his full height. “I am a Psi Lord of Takis, trained by the finest mentats of House Ilkazam,” he said. “His mind was mine. I did not get it wrong.”
“He sent Mackie after Digger!” Jay argued.
“And he commanded Oddity to retrieve the incriminating jacket, and destroy it. Most assuredly. After he heard that Chrysalis was dead, he took steps to protect himself. But he had no hand in ordering that death.” Tachyon put a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my friend.”
“Then who the fuck did it?” Jay demanded.
“We have no time to argue about this now,” Hiram said impatiently. “The woman’s dead, nothing will—”
“Quiet,” Jay said urgently.
/>
A newsflash flickered across the screen. “… latest tragedy to strike the convention,” a solemn announcer was saying. “Senator Hartmann is unharmed, repeat, unharmed, but reliable reports indicate that the ace assassin took the lives of two other men in his attempt to reach the senator. We are still waiting for final confirmation, but unofficial sources indicate that the killer’s victims were Alex James, a Secret Service agent assigned to Senator Hartmann—” A photograph of the dead man appeared on the screen, above the announcer’s shoulder. “—and the chairman of Hartmann’s California delegation, ace Jack Braun. The controversial Braun, who starred in feature films and TV’s Tarzan, was better known as Golden Boy. He was considered by some to be the strongest man in the world. Braun first came to public attention…”
Jack’s picture appeared on screen as the announcer went on and on. He was in his old fatigues, smiling crookedly, surrounded by a golden glow. He looked young, alive, invincible.
“Oh, Jack,” Tachyon said. For thirty years he had prayed for Jack’s death. Even plotted it in angry alcoholic dreams. Now it had come and another little part of Tisianne died.
“He can’t be dead,” Hiram said furiously. “I just saved his damnable life last night!” The television set floated off the carpet. Scraped against the ceiling. “He cannot be dead!” Hiram insisted, and all of a sudden the TV was falling. It hit the floor, and the picture tube exploded.
“He will not have died in vain,” Tachyon said. Did it mean anything? He didn’t think so. He just spoke to assure himself that he was still alive. Tach touched Hiram on the arm. “Come,” he said.
The pain was greater than anything Jack had ever imagined. It burned through him from head to toe, searing every nerve, every muscle, every square millimeter of skin. His brain had gone nova. His heart was an exploding turbo-pump. His eyes felt as if they were melting. Every cell in his body was on fire, every strand of DNA in revolt against its inherited code.
The black queen, Jack realized. Somehow he’d just drawn the black queen.
He could feel his body shutting down in protest against the agony. Bit by bit, organ by organ, like someone throwing all the circuit breakers in a big building.
The pain ended.
He saw himself crumpled on the landing, his face set in an expression of dumb shock. The assassin, barely able to move, managed to get his jacket off and wrap it around his head, stopping the flow of blood from his mangled jaw. “Hey,” Jack said. He tried to grab the guy. “Stop!” Somehow the assassin crawled away.
“Yo. Farm boy.”
Jack looked up in surprise at the sound of Earl Sanderson’s voice. Earl looked younger than when Jack had seen him last, the young athlete just graduated from Rutgers, and was dressed in his old Army Air Corps fatigues with the insignia taken off, his leather flying jacket with the patch of the 332nd Fighter Group, the black beret, and long silk scarf. The Black Eagle—scholar, athlete, civil rights attorney, ace … and maybe Jack’s best friend.
“Hi, Earl,” Jack said.
“Man, you’re slow,” Earl said. “We’re supposed to be flying out of here by now.”
“I can’t fly, Earl. I’m not like you.”
“Slow, farm boy.” Earl was grinning. “Slow.”
Jack was mildly surprised when they both began to fly. The Marriott Marquis was gone and they were in the sky, heading toward the sun. The sun began to get brighter and brighter.
“Hey, Earl,” Jack said. “What’s going on here?”
“You’ll work it out sooner or later, farm boy.”
The sun was almost blinding, the yellow light turning whiter and whiter, all color leached away. Jack saw other people there, guys from the 5th Division and Korea, his parents, his older brother. The were all flying, rising into the sky. Blythe van Renssaeler neared him and gave him a shy smile.
“Damn. He’s asystolic,” she said. “Flat line.”
“Huh?” Jack looked at her.
Archibald Holmes strode confidently toward him, dressed in a white linen suit. He lit a cigarette and put it in its holder.
“Hi, Mr. Holmes.”
“Okay,” Holmes said. “I got the ET down his throat. Where’s the bag?”
“Why does he keep glowing on and off like that?” Blythe asked.
“Can’t help it, really.” Jack shrugged.
“Start O2,” said Holmes. “I’m going to shoot some epinephrine down the endotrachial tube. I’ll want a milligram of atropine in a minute.”
Jack looked around and saw that Earl was holding hands with a long-legged woman with blond hair tousled over one eye and broad, padded shoulders.
“You must be Lena Goldoni,” he said. “I’ve seen your pictures.”
“We’ve got fibrillation,” said Lena.
“Slow,” Earl said, shaking his head. “Farm boys are so slow.” His scarf was rippling in an invisible wind.
Jack realized he was here with almost all the old Four Aces crowd, everyone except David Harstein, and he began to wonder if he should apologize for what he’d done to them, how he’d destroyed them all. But they all seemed so happy to see him he decided not to mention it.
More people were clustering around him. Some of them he’d forgotten he’d known. Even Chester the Chimp, who’d played opposite Jack in Tarzan of the Apes, was there, riding on someone’s shoulders.
“Give him three hundred joules,” said the ape. “Stop CPR. Clear! Clear, Goddamn it! Get your hand off that metal rail, will you, Lois?”
The light was getting brighter and brighter. Circling around them, the rays seemed almost palpable, like the walls of a tunnel. Jack felt his speed increase as he shot toward the source of the light. He began to hear people singing, a million voices raised in joy.
The light grew nearer, not just white light but the White Light. Jack’s heart lifted. He began to understand what it was that Earl wanted him to know.
“Three hundred sixty!” shrieked the ape. “Clear! Clear!”
Jack stretched out his arms and prepared to dive into the heart of the White Light. Suddenly he seemed to hesitate in his progress. He was slowing down. Desperately he tried to speed up. He longed to fly farther.
He realized the White Light was looking at him.
“What a weenie,” the White Light said. “Get that weenie outta here.”
Jack coughed and opened his eyes and saw people crouched over him, men and women he recognized from Gregg Hartmann’s Secret Service detail, working with emergency medical equipment that was part of their standard issue. He felt an ache in his solar plexus and he couldn’t stop coughing. Jack looked up over their heads, saw blood-flecked concrete walls and steep stair risers.
“Normal sinus rhythm,” one said. “We got pulse. We got pressure.” He spoke in Archibald Holmes’s voice. A couple of the others cheered.
A tall brown-haired woman was speaking into a walkie-talkie. “Ambulance on its way.” The voice was Blythe’s.
“I blew it,” Jack tried to say. He couldn’t talk over the endotrachial tube they’d slid down his throat. “I blew it again.” He was too weak to feel much emotion over it.
The ambulance crew arrived and carried him away.
8:00 P.M.
He had himself well in hand. The emotional devastation of an hour ago was past. Jack was dead. The friendship, the man he had known as Gregg Hartmann was dead. Chrysalis was dead. Very well. So be it. He was in control now. He would do what had to be done.
But these officious twits were arguing with him. Mouths moving, gums and tongues red against black and white faces.
“I’m telling you the reverend is busy. You don’t have an appointment,” said the black aide patiently, as if explaining addition to a retarded child.
“He will see me. I am Tachyon,” explained the alien in the same patient, condescending tone.
“Go and phone. Use appropriate channels,” said Straight Arrow calmly.
“I don’t have time for appropriate channels,” snapped Tachyon. Hi
s control was unraveling like line reeling from a fly fishing rod.
“It’s late,” put in the aide.
The door to the suite was partially ajar. Tachyon measured the gap between the two far bigger men. It would accommodate him. Wriggling like a fish he darted between them, and through the door.
“HEY!”
Shouts. A wall of people advancing upon him. Phones shrilling. A television pouring its electronic inanities into the crowded suite.
“Get out of my way! GET OUT OF MY WAY! WHERE IS HE? I MUST SEE HIM!” His voice ringing shrilly in his own ears.
“You can’t just waltz in here—” bawled Straight Arrow.
People had gripped him by arms and legs, lifting him completely off the ground. Tach screamed with fury, and writhed in their grasps. Mind-controlling people frantically, he felt the holds on him loosen, then jerk tight again as new people stepped forward to replace those he had dropped slumbering to the floor.
The connecting door to the bedroom flew open, banging violently into the far wall. Jesse Jackson, reading glasses clutched in his hand, glared at his supporters, and roared, “LET HIM GO!”
The two oldest Jackson sons pushed back the irate staffers. The very pretty and very self-possessed Jackie Jackson helped Tachyon smooth his coat. Slowly order was restored. Jesse Jackson beckoned to Tachyon, and he joined him in the bedroom. The door closed, blocking off the worst of the noise, and the curious gawking faces.
“Here.” Tachyon opened his eyes. Jackson had thrust a hotel glass filled with scotch under his nose. “You believe in making an entrance, don’t you, Doctor? You couldn’t have just called and asked to see me?”
Tach pressed a hand to his eyes. “I didn’t think.” Squaring his shoulders he pushed up and off the wall that had been supporting him. “Call a press conference, Reverend. You have just become the new, best hope for the wild cards.”
Jackson seemed bereft of words. He slapped his hand against his thigh, then took several quick turns about the cramped room.
“Why?” His tone and expression were equally grim.
“Upon reflection I have become convinced of the strength of your arguments.”