Wild Cards [06] Ace in the Hole by George R.R. Martin Page B

First rule of business."

    9:00 P.M.
    "The problem with Jackson on the ticket is that it could cost us the election. Not to sound bigoted or nothin'"
    "But you do," interrupted Tachyon. A frown of jovian proportions creased Bruce Jenkins's forehead. Since the only hair remaining to the man was a tiny ruff over each big red ear it looked as if his entire head was buckling like earthquaketorn Earth. "Not to suggest that you are," Tachyon hastened to add, realizing that Takisian tactlessness might not be in place at a political convention. "But why are we discussing thirdplace runners, no matter how interesting or charismatic? The real issue is Senator Hartmann and Leo Barnett."
    "Reverend."
    "Eh?"
    "Reverend Barnett. You give Hartmann his title. Leo's deserving of his, too."
    "Are we finally getting down to business, Mr. Jenkins?"
    "Yeah. Texas went solidly for the Reverend."
    "And you intend to keep it that way?"
    "If I can. Now this ain't to say that Gregg Hartmann isn't a good man. He is, that's why I think a Barnett/Hartmann ticket might have some real strengths."
    "Impossible!"
    "Now, don't be so hasty. Politics is a lot like horse trading, Doctor. You can't be too rigid."
    "Mr. Jenkins, if the issue is the triumph of the Democratic ticket in November, then a ticket headed by Leo Barnett would be a disaster. There are still enough people who would oppose a religious figure running this country. Besides, Barnett is a one-note candidate."
    "No, sir, there you're wrong. You see him as a one-note candidate because you're obsessed with wild cards, but Leo speaks for a lot of simple Americans who are worried about the moral decay of this country."
    They stepped out of the Bello Mondo restaurant. To their left came the clatter of cutlery on china as the journalists, hangers-on, and less wealthy delegates dined in the Marriott's coffee shop. Tachyon frowned up at the banners stretched across the dizzying expanse of the lobby atrium.
    Heard the sharp tick of high heels. jumped and whirled as he felt cold fingers nuzzle up beneath his hair, touching the nape of his neck. Sara winced at the pressure of his hand around her fingers. Bright color flamed in each cheek, but it looked angry against the unnatural white of her skin.
    "I came for a statement, and to see if I could help." Tachyon shook his head. "What?"
    She reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. "Chrysalis."
    "What about her?"
    "She's dead." The flat tone snapped him around as surely as Fleur's slap. He took two quick steps, groping for support. His hand closed on the sharp point of Sara's shoulder. "Dead!"
    "You mean you didn't know?"
    "No ... I ... I've been busy. All day."
    "Yeah." Her tone was bitter; then abruptly she dropped a gentle sympathetic mask over her pale features. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."
    Jenkins tiptoed over. "Doctor, it seems you've had bad news. We'll talk another time."
    Sara gripped Tachyon's arm with both hands and tugged him toward the elevators. "This has been a shock. You're very pale. !Maybe you should lie down."
    "I need a drink."
    Sara hung on grimly to his arm. "Don't you have something in your room?"
    He frowned at her. "Yes."
    "Let's ... let's go there." Pale tongue running briefly across those too thin lips. "I ... I need to talk to you." Physical vertigo added to his emotional vertigo as the elevator shot upward. "Chrysalis." He shook his head. "Tell me."
    She did, in quick terse sentences, her pale eyes locked on his lilac ones. She seemed to be pressing for a mind contact, and he tightened his control. He didn't really want to know what went on behind that intense face.
    He led them into the suite. Stood staring into the mirror over the wet bar, a hand closed limply about a brandy bottle. Mirrors. Chrysalis had loved mirrors, and had filled her boudoir with them.
    He pictured the skull head with its trademark swirl of glitter on one transparent cheek. Pictured it battered to a bloody pulp. The tink of glass on glass was loud