VI
IF THE SITUATION HADN’T been so deadly, it could have been funny. Modular Man vanishing over the rooftops with Croyd in his arms, and the joker squad and Tachyon gaping stupidly after him. Troll had cleared his throat, an explosion of sound like a road grader moving gravel. He offered the Takisian the limp figure of Bill Lockwood like a man presenting his prize catch.
“Well, at least we’ve got this one,” he said timidly.
“Bloody lot of good it does us! Well, I suppose I must treat him,” Tach had muttered pettishly, and they had all returned to the clinic.
A few hours later and the mystery man’s body temperature was returned to near normal. He lay blinking groggily in the hospital bed confined by restraints. Tachyon drew up a chair and stared into the handsome, insipid face.
“You’ve given us a devil of a time, you know that. Why on earth did you protect Croyd so desperately? You’re directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people!”
To Tachyon’s chagrin the young man’s face screwed up, and he began to cry. “I was just lookin’ out for Croyd,” he blubbered while Tach mopped at the tears with his handkerchief. “He’s the only person who’s ever been good to me. He gave me his donuts. He made me an ace.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Aren’t you gonna read my mind?”
“I’m too tired and cranky to read your mind.” Tachyon sensed that in some inexplicable way he had let the man down.
“I’m … was Snotman—but don’t use that name—I’m an ace now.”
“Snot…” Tachyon’s voice trailed away, and he helplessly shook his head.
Memories like a stuttering slide show racheted through his mind. The horrible mucus-covered figure fleeing from the baseball-bat-wielding bouncer at Freakers … the Demon Princes tormenting the miserable joker until blood had mingled with the green mucus … the disgusting adenoidal sounds emerging from dumpsters where Snotman slept.
“Oh, ships and ancestors, he made you an ace and you were so grateful…” Words again failed him.
“What’s going to happen to me?” asked Bill Lockwood.
“I don’t know.”
There was a growing tumult in the hall: Troll bellowing like an outraged bull, and Tina’s voice high and shrill. A name emerged from the cacophony … Tachyon’s.
Modular Man was circling overhead with Croyd wrapped in a sheet like an outraged mummy. Tachyon and Troll tumbled into their suits, and the android thrust Croyd into the isolation chamber. Tachyon had prepared it weeks ago; prison security glass, a heavily reinforced steel door. They were ready.
Croyd punched his way through the glass in just under two minutes. And vanished beneath a pile of tackling bodies. Hours later the glass was replaced, and electrified mesh bolted to the wall.
Croyd punched through that in under a minute. Electricity seemed to act as a stimulant.
Troll looked up from where Croyd, bound hand and foot with steel shackles, lay beneath his nine-foot bulk. “Doc, I can’t sit on him for the rest of my life.”
They replaced the glass again. Tachyon discussed steel shutters with the security experts from Attica. They shrugged and pointed out that the walls would never bear the stress.
Then Finn had produced a wild and harebrained notion.
“Consider cows,” he had remarked, pawing gently at the floor with a dainty forefoot. Victoria Queen had almost headed off for a sedative. “They’re so stupid they won’t walk over painted lines on the highway because they think it’s a cattle guard.”
“Yes, but Croyd is a man, not a cow,” Tachyon explained patiently.
“But he’s very suggestible.”
“How would you know?”
“I put him to sleep with brain wave entrainment and suggestion, remember?”
They hooked him up and tried the same trick again. This time it didn’t work. So they painted bars on the window. And on the door.
Croyd was very docile after that.
As long as no one came in the room.
Please go to sleep. Please, Croyd, go to sleep.
Tachyon had made this prayer every day for the past four days, but there was no response from the nervously pacing albino beyond the painted glass of the isolation chamber.
Tachyon had tried to give nature a little push. After the failure of brain wave entrainment he had pumped sleep gas into the room, drugged Croyd’s food. And Croyd remained stubbornly and infectiously awake. And each hour he was awake the virus continued to mutate.
Croyd was a walking holocaust. And a decision had to be made. Tachyon stared down at his hands. Remembered the buck of the gun as he killed Claude Bonnell. Remembered the Burning Woman. Remembered Rabdan.
Ideal. I’m tired of dealing in death. Spare me, fathers, I don’t want to do it again.
Peregrine smiled up at him from the hospital bed, then grimaced and bit down hard on her lip as another pain washed through her. Her blue eyes were overly bright, and her cheerful manner seemed more manic than natural. Tachyon sympathized. He had to struggle to keep his smile in place. In the next few hours she would give birth, and they both knew what that experience could do to the fetus now struggling to free itself from her swollen body.
He laid a gentle hand on the mound of her belly and felt the contraction shuddering through the muscles. “Cesarean might be easier on our boy.”
“No. McCoy and I feel very strongly about this.”
“Where is he?”
“Out getting coffee.”
“You still insist on all this togetherness?”
“Yes.”
“Husbands are a damned nuisance.”
“I’d expect you to feel that way, Tachy darling.” She managed to look almost sexy despite her condition. “And by the way, we’re not married.” Another spasm, and she panted, “How much longer?”
“You’re just warming up.”
“Terrific.”
“Middle-aged mothers. It’s harder on you.”
“No encouragement, and now an insult.”
“Sorry.”
She reached out to him. “Tach, I was teasing.”
“Try to rest. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“It’s a date.”
Troll stuck his head around the office door. “You don’t need me, do you?”
“Why?”
“Trouble at the Chaos Club. The call just came in.”
“No, go ahead.”
“Strange, there hasn’t been a peep out of these goons for days. You’d think they’d have learned.”
“Well, go and drive home the lesson again, Troll.”
“You want to come?”
“Peregrine’s in labor.”
“Oh. See you later, Doc.”
Tachyon checked with Tina and discovered they had moved Peregrine to the delivery room. In the locker room he stripped out of his peach and silver finery, shrugged into the green surgical gown, and scrubbed.
The intercom buzzed. He flipped it on with an elbow.
“Boss,” came Finn’s voice. “It’s raining jokers down here.”
“I’ve got a baby to deliver.”
“Oh, right.” Finn hung up the phone. The emergency room was filling up with young jokers sporting a variety of cuts and bruises. More were streaming in. Finn trotted to the nearest teen, then reared back when he noticed that the gash across the boy’s forehead was a clever makeup job.
A six-inch length of a switchblade glittered beneath Finn’s nose.
An ambulance roared into the bay and disgorged a party of heavily armed men. Finn raised his hands. His mommy didn’t raise no dummy.
When the idea of seizing Tachyon’s clinic had first been proposed, Brennan had argued strenuously against the plan. But the word filtered down from on high: Tachyon can lead us to a woman who can sleep with a joker and cure him. Find her. And Tachyon needs to be taught a lesson. Get him.
Brennan wasn’t surprised by the order. A year ago Kien had been using the lovely Vietnamese girl Mai to cure jokers. All it took was money—a lot of it—and you were cured. Then Brennan had killed Scar and rescued Mai, and now a new girl had arisen to take her place. A girl who cured with sex. What joker male wouldn’t pay a fortune to be cured by fucking a beautiful woman?
The real irony was that Brennan had been given command of the assault. After robbing Kien of his curing machine he was about to provide the crime boss with a new one. It was too bad about Tachyon and his clinic, but Brennan had his own agenda to pursue.
The only problem was that he’d been jumped over Danny Mao, and the Oriental didn’t appreciate it. On the other hand it was an indication of how well regarded Brennan had become within Kien’s byzantine network. The next step would probably be into the inner circle that surrounded Kien himself, and then Brennan’s revenge would be within reach. So he couldn’t refuse the assignment. He had worked too hard for too many years to pull down the facade that was Kien Phuc and reveal the rottenness that lay behind.
Brennan rammed a clip into his Browning High Power and touched the pockets of his vest, making sure his reloads were handy. It had been agreed that deaths would be kept to a minimum. Only one person was earmarked for death—Tachyon.
Eleven twenty-seven.
Brennan, riding with the driver, peered ahead at the clinic. They’d be pulling in soon. Too bad about Tachyon.
If you wish to find the unclouded truth, do not concern yourself with right and wrong.
He had his own agenda.
Right or wrong.
McCoy was holding up pretty well. At least he hadn’t passed out and been carried out of the delivery room. He was even occasionally remembering to instruct Peri to pant, bear down, breathe. Her responses to these helpful reminders were direct and uncomplimentary. Another brittle scream tore from her throat, and she arched in the stirrups.
Tachyon, eyes flicking between monitors and her dilated cervix, said softly, “You’re doing fine, Peri. Just a little more now.”
He reached out and touched the unformed mind of the child fighting its way down the birth canal. Fear, fury at having its comfortable world so abruptly upset. (Definitely Fortunato’s child.) Tachyon stroked and soothed, watched the heartbeat slow from its frenzied pounding.
You’re going to be all right, little man. Don’t give me the satisfaction of being right.
How many times had he hunched between a mother’s knees, received a child, and had it turn to sludge in his hands? Too many.
There was a crash that swung him around on the stool, and the alien gaped in amazement at the three armed men who had plunged through the doors of the delivery room. Peregrine reared up on her elbows and eyed them with loathing. “OH, CHRIST!”
“What the devil do you mean by this?”
Tach retreated slightly at the aggressive thrust of an Uzi barrel in his direction. The two other intruders merely gulped and stared with reddened faces at Peregrine’s private parts.
“You’ve broken the sterile integrity of this room. Get out!”
“We’re here for you.”
“I’m a little busy right now. I’m delivering a baby. OUT!” Tach made shooing motions with his gloved hands.
“Fuck this,” yelled McCoy, doing just what Tachyon had prayed he wouldn’t.
Tach’s mind control dropped the cameraman in his tracks, and his seizure of the shootist sent the rounds spraying into the ceiling. Glass from broken light fixtures tinkled all about him.
“McCoy!” Peregrine struggled in Tina’s grasp.
“Lie down! He’s fine. He will live to be an idiot yet another day.”
“Release my man or I’ll kill you. One of the two of us will get you, or these women,” shouted the nervous young Oriental. Dr. Tachyon released the gunman. “Now you’re coming with us.”
“Gentlemen, I don’t know why you’re here, or who you are, but I will be at your disposal after I have delivered this child. I can’t slip away down the drain. I have to exit through those doors, so kindly wait for me in the scrub room.”
He pulled his stool back into position between Peri’s legs and resumed his quiet external and internal monologue to mother and child.
“McCoy,” panted the ace.
“Asleep.”
Peri’s screams and contractions were coming in waves. Tach didn’t like her pressure, but … Suddenly baby slid free. Reaching into the vagina, he cradled the tiny head on his palm and helped slide John Fortune into his new world.
Tach tasted blood and realized he had bitten through his lower lip. He enfolded the child in waves of warmth and love and comfort. Don’t change! Don’t transform! By the Ideal, don’t transform!
The baby lay in his hands, a perfectly formed man-child with a thick head of dark hair. The mucus was suctioned from the budlike mouth. Upending him, Tachyon massaged the tiny back, and a powerful yell erupted from the boy. Tach blinked away tears, wiped blood and mucus from the baby, and laid the child on his mother’s flaccid stomach.
“He’s all right. He’s all right.” Her fingers played gently across the bawling child.
“Yes, Peri, he’s perfect. You were right.”
The final details were handled; cord cut, child given a more thorough wash and wrapped in lamb’s wool. Tachyon and Tina levered Peregrine onto a gurney, then heaved the snoring McCoy onto another. A face was thrust into the window of the delivery room. Tach hunched his shoulders and ignored it.
“Doctor, what’s going on?” quavered Tina.
“I don’t know, my dear, but I presume those armed gentlemen will tell me.”
Brennan swept into the scrub room and stared at his men. They guiltily dropped the cigarette they had been sharing and studied the floor.
“Where’s Tachyon?”
“In there.”
“Why in there?”
“He was delivering a baby.”
“God, it was gross.”
“Embarrassing,” amplified the third.
“He promised to—”
“Surrender to you. Yes, gentlemen, I did, and you behold me. Now, however, could you help me? I assume you have—” His eyes met Brennan’s; he faltered, coughed, and resumed. “You have seized my orderlies, and I have a patient who needs to be taken to the nursery, and one who needs to go to her room.”
You! My gods what are you doing here?
Seizing your clinic.
But why? WHY?
“So if you would be kind enough to assist with a gurney.”
The outer conversation flowed on over the internal telepathic exchange.
The three men looked to Brennan. “Put them with the rest in the cafeteria.”
“Cafeteria! Surely you’re not moving the dangerously ill or the infants?”
“Don’t be an idiot. They’re no threat to us,” said Brennan, disgusted.
“The man in isolation … you didn’t release him?” asked Tachyon.
“No, he’s our cover.”
“Cover?”
“Why am I wasting time beating gums with you? Move it,” shouted Brennan. “You can take the brat to the nursery, and we’ll have a little talk.”
Brennan, his Browning gripped tightly in his hand, and Tachyon, with John Fortune cradled in his arms, paced through the unnaturally silent halls.
The nursery staff had all been removed, so Tachyon prepared a bottle and fed the child. Brennan swung a chair around and straddled it, arms folded across the back.
“Now, what is this all about?” asked Tachyon with a mildness he didn’t feel.
“Two things. You’ve upset a certain major player with your goon squad. You’ve also got an item that this player wants.”
“Please stop talking like a third-rate goon in a B gangster movie. ‘Item’ indeed!” snorted the alien.
“Jane Lillian Dow.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“My boss thinks different.”
“Your boss is wrong.” Tachyon wiped away a trail of milk from the baby’s chin. “I presume you have put about some story or another to explain the closure of the clinic?”
“Yes, we’re telling people that the carrier’s loose in the hospital.”
“Clever.” Tachyon shifted Johnny, studying the baby’s slight epicanthic folds, and glanced significantly at Brennan’s altered eyes. “I never asked why you wanted the surgery.”
“I know. I appreciated that.”
“I could have discovered, but I did not. I respected your privacy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And this is how you repay me?”
“I had to get into this … organization. I’ve risked everything for this.”
Tachyon flung out a hand. “This? This? Invading my clinic, endangering my patients?”
“No, no, not this. Other … things.…” Brennan’s voice trailed away.
“I wouldn’t give you Jane even if I knew where she was.”
“My orders are to start killing patients until you do.”
Tachyon blanched and took a harder grip on the bottle. He flipped John over his shoulder and patted until the baby let out a loud belch, dribbling milk over the peach-colored material.
“Your orders are to kill me no matter what.”
“STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!” Brennan swung away from Tachyon, clenched his fists between his thighs. “I won’t do it.”
“No, you will have someone else do it for you. What a very flexible mind you have, Captain. You would have made a good Takisian. Perhaps that is why I like you.” He rose and laid Johnny in a crib.
“GODDAMN YOU!”
“Why?”
“You’re all closing in on me, wrapping me in these bonds, holding me, smothering me.”
“I wonder what your Jennifer would think of what you’re doing?”
“DAMN IT! STAY OUT! JUST STAY THE FUCK OUT! I didn’t want to care,” he concluded quietly.
“It is the price you pay for being human, Brennan. Sometimes you have to care.”
“I do,” he said, agonized.
“For death. Someday it might make an interesting change to choose the living.”
“That’s not fair,” he cried after Tachyon’s back. “What about Mai?”
“Mai is gone. This is here and now, and you are going to have to make a choice.”
The hours crawled by. Tachyon’s admiration for Bradly Latour Finn increased with each passing moment. The little joker comforted the old, jollied the young, and played games with the children. His insouciant grin never budged. Not when their increasingly nervous guards rained curses or blows onto his curly head. Not when Victoria Queen cried out hysterically:
“We’re all going to die, and how can you be so fucking calm?”
“Too dumb to know different.”
He trotted to Tachyon, gun muzzles following his progress through the crowded cafeteria. He paused briefly by a table where Deadhead was maintaining a constant babble. Nodded seriously for several seconds.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Sit down!” yelled one of their guards.
Finn backed delicately toward a chair. Wriggled his hindquarters. Sadly shook his head and trotted to Tach. The alien gasped in surprise as he noticed for the first time the joker’s tail. It had been cut off just below the dock.
“Your tail!”
“It will adorn some Werewolf’s jacket.”
Idiotically, this upset Tachyon almost more than anything that had thus far happened. “Your tail,” he mourned again.
“It’ll grow. Besides, I was too proud of it anyway.” He leaned in. “Doc, some of these people need medication.”
“I know.”
Tachyon slid off the table, and with his hand resting lightly on Finn’s withers, he walked to Brennan. It was an absurd picture. The tiny alien dressed in knee breeches, the lace cravat of his shirt untied and falling like a foaming waterfall, copper curls fluttering as he walked. The tiny palomino centaur prancing like a Lipizzaner at his side.
“A number of these people are on medication. May I take some of my staff and obtain the drugs?”
“Drugs. Sounds good,” laughed a Werewolf.
“Give us what we want,” said Brennan.
“No.”
“SHIT!” Danny Mao mashed out a cigarette on a cellophane-wrapped chef’s salad. The hot tip burnt through the plastic and left a black smear on the cheese and the meat. “How long are we gonna sit here?”
“As long as it takes,” replied Brennan shortly.
“Cowboy, let’s kill a few of these ugly fuckers.” Danny Mao eyed the huddled jokers with disgust. “We’d be doing most of them a favor.”
Brennan rounded on Tachyon. “The girl.”
“No.”
Why are you doing this!
Why are you?
Twenty more minutes crawled agonizingly past. Tachyon, eyes half-closed, fingered a violin sonata on his knee, head beating time to the silent music.
“Cowboy, he’s got a mind power. What’s to say he’s not calling the joker hit squad right now?”
Lee ranged himself with the only other Oriental in the group. “Danny’s right.”
“He won’t call for help. He knows the risks of an assault from outside. How many of them”—Brennan’s arm swept out to encompass the frightened patients and staff—“will be killed in the shooting?” He rounded on Tachyon, his gray eyes hard. “How many of them shall we kill as payment for treachery?”
“‘Treachery.’” Tachyon savored the word. Lilac eyes met gray. The gray fell first.
“Okay, so you don’t want to start offing sick old ladies,” said Danny, eyeing one with disfavor. “Even if they are as ugly as an unwiped asshole. Why don’t we use him?” A jerk of a thumb toward Deadhead, who was guiltily gobbling down a piece of pie, and keeping up the running monologue with himself. “That’s what he’s here for.”
Brennan wiped sweat. “We don’t know what Tachyon might do to him. It’s an alien metabolism.”
Danny stepped to an old man, gripped him by his stringy white hair, and thrust the barrel of his Colt Python into the toothless mouth. Victoria Queen whimpered. A rustle went through the hostages. Tachyon came half out of his chair, then subsided when he realized the Chinese man’s focus was on Brennan.
“I don’t think you’ve got what it takes, Cowboy,” Danny said in a dangerously low tone. “I think it was a mistake putting you in charge. Now either you gather your stones and act, or I will.”
“All right,” shouted Brennan. “We’ll use Deadhead.”
Danny pulled his pistol from the joker’s mouth and placed the tip of the barrel against Tachyon’s throat. A gasp and a rustle ran through the prisoners.
“But not here. In his office. And Deadhead.” The ace looked up and paused in his energetic chewing. “Bring a spoon.”
Brennan left five men on guard in the cafeteria. He watched Tachyon studying the fifteen men who towered over him in the elevator. It was a look he knew—a man weighing the odds. And not liking the answer.
Isida, my roshi, what takes precedence? The quest of a man’s soul, or the transitory friendships of this world?
There was no answer. Somehow Brennan had a feeling that even if the old man had been present, there still wouldn’t have been an answer.
Tachyon’s narrow face was composed. He was clearly resigned to death. Brennan doubted the alien would meet it quietly. He would try something before the end.
Deadhead belched and patted his stomach. “Wish I hadn’t had that piece of pie. Hope I got room for this. Hey, how we gonna open his head?” Tachyon’s eyes widened. Suddenly he doubled over and vomited onto Danny’s shoes.
“Oh, shit!” yelled the Oriental.
“Mind reading’s not such a great power, huh?” gritted Brennan. “You find out what’s in store for you. Lee, go down to the operating room and bring a saw.”
“Why don’t we just take him down there?” whined the boy, holding his nose against the stink.
“Because I don’t want to.” Tension and fury crackled in the words.
They filed into Tachyon’s office, Brennan carefully closing the door behind him. Danny pulled back the hammer on his gun and grinned back over his shoulder at Brennan.
“I’ll handle this, Cowboy. You don’t seem to have the stomach for it.”
It wasn’t a conscious decision. Brennan just reached out and snapped off the lights. New York’s bright glow formed a square of silver around the tightly closed blinds, but the rest of the room was plunged into stygian darkness.
Tachyon hit the floor as two simultaneous muzzle flashes almost blinded him. A body fell across him.
“Shit! He’s got a gun,” he heard Brennan sing out.
He wished to god he had.
Thrusting with elbows and knees, Tachyon belly-crawled across the thick carpet. A foot took him hard in the ribs, and he bit back a gasp. The man took a header, discharging his Uzi in a long burst as he fell. Someone screamed.
Feeling for the knob, Tachyon seized it in a sweat-slick hand, threw open the door, and darted through. He slammed it quickly behind him, and bullets blasted through the thin wood, peppering his cheek with splinters. He ran.
Steadying himself with a hand, he swung around the corner just as the door burst open, and the pursuit began.
Again Brennan’s voice. “Half of you come with me. We’ll head him off.”
Fifteen, becomes fourteen, becomes thirteen, becomes maybe twelve, if that first Uzi blast hit one of them. So call it six to one. Still terrible odds, and too many for mind control unless he could separate them, and he didn’t like that idea at all.
So where to go?
“This is the Place of Death.”
Tachyon jerked open the door to the stairs and leaped like a hunted deer, taking two steps at a time. They were one landing behind.
“But the buck lived … Because he came first, running for his life.”
It was a desperate gamble. It had to be taken. Two floors below huddled his people. If his pursuers remembered, returned to threaten them …
He fished out his keys, put on a final burst of speed. His breath was sobbing in his raw throat. He couldn’t see Croyd through the wide observation window of the isolation room. The lock turned, and he waited, hand on the knob. The hunting pack burst out of the stairwell, baying with excitement.
“There he is!”
He entered the room with a forward roll. Flashed past Croyd, who was crouched waiting by the door. But not for a compact bundle, tucked in close and rolling. Tachyon bounced to his feet.
“Croyd, help me. They’re after us!”
A hand reached out. Tach flowed through it, allowing the momentum to carry Croyd a good three feet past him. Avoidance was his only hope. If Croyd ever got a grip on him, the ace would break him like fragile glass. The red eyes were maddened, the pale face twisted, inhuman.
The hunters arrived. Tachyon threw himself into a long flat dive that carried him toward the bed. Croyd snarled, confused, questing. His eyes met those of the leading gunman. The Uzi came up, but the man let out a wail like steam being vented from a locomotive and began to melt. Within seconds he had sunk to his knees in an ever-widening pool of frothing pink ooze.
Croyd’s hand lashed out at another, connecting at the junction of shoulder and neck. Tachyon pressed desperately against the wall, heard bones crunch. The man collapsed with a broken neck. Screams filled the room.
Suddenly there was a flare of incandescence, and a hunter became a human torch. Within seconds all that was left was the stink of burnt tile and cooked flesh, and a blackened patch on the floor.
One of the three survivors got off a shot. The bullet buried itself in Croyd’s bare foot. Throwing back his head, the albino howled in pain. He gripped the gun and ripped it from the man’s hand. Croyd then proceeded to beat him with the barrel. Skin cracked and tore as the gunsight ripped into the tender flesh of his cheeks.
At Tachyon’s feet another man writhed. The convulsions were so violent that he was literally bent like a bow, head to heels. Blood ran from his mouth where he had bitten through his tongue.
Black Queen. Without joker manifestation. Three out of seven. Blood and line, let me live. I want to live.
Fear was a living thing, gripping him by the throat, stopping the breath in his lungs. Tachyon struggled for air.
The boy, Lee, had been at the back of the pack. Terrified, he threw down his gun and fled. Croyd tossed aside his attacker, who collapsed like a bloody puppet, and raced in pursuit.
Tachyon, turning his head as if his neck were made of glass, eyed the carnage. Gazed down his own slim length. Gave a sob of joy. Pushing off the wall, he swept up an Uzi and ran into the hall. The window over the fire escape had been wrenched out of the wall. Leaning out he saw a shadowy figure vanishing between the Dumpsters in the alley. Hating himself, he fired, heard the whine of bullets ricocheting off brick and metal and no other sound. Croyd was gone.
His ankles had gone limp, and he almost fell. A strong arm slipped around his waist, and the Takisian gave a cry of terror. He lashed out with his mind power and froze as he recognized the mind.
“Brennan.”
They had a few minutes before the police arrived. Tachyon sat behind his desk, poured two stiff brandies, and saluted the impassive human.
“I count you … friend. Thank you.”
Brennan was canted back in his chair, booted feet propped on the desk. Danny’s body sprawled on the carpet next to him.
“Took me a damn long time to make up my mind.”
“You had much at stake. I am grateful.”
“Shut up. You’ve thanked me enough. Well, I better get out of here.” Brennan fished in his pocket, pulled out an ace of spades, and flipped the card onto the body. “Give them all something to think about.”
“The police … and who else?”
“What do you mean?” Brennan tensed in the doorway.
“Who is behind this?” Silence stretched between them. “Daniel, I demand to know. You owe me that.”
The human turned slowly back to face him. “It’s dangerous.”
“You’re telling me something I don’t already know? This man has preyed upon my people, my holding, and made war on me. It must stop.”
“And how do you propose to accomplish that?”
“By making him believe that I am more dangerous to him than he is to me.”
A smile quirked that strong mouth, vanished, began to grow by slow stages. Tachyon watched in fascination. It was the first time he’d ever seen Brennan smile.
“This is what I propose.”
Order was restored. Finn treated patients for shock, Peregrine nursed her baby, statements were given, bodies or the remnants of bodies counted. The five men left on guard in the cafeteria had escaped, and also the horrifying Deadhead. A massive manhunt began for Croyd. Tachyon regretted and agonized over his decision. Perhaps he should have accepted death rather than release Croyd, but what a death … his brains consumed by that repellant creature. He decided he just wasn’t that noble.
By five A.M. the alien was free to leave. He made preparations, collected the limousine, met Brennan. With the human driving they set out to Fifth Avenue and Seventy-third Street.
They parked in the alley behind the five-story gray-stone apartment building. Tachyon spread a lace tablecloth across the hood of the Lincoln and laid out breakfast: warm croissants, thermoses of hot tea and coffee. A selection of cheeses. Then, nibbling on a sliver of Camembert, he sent out the call. A siren’s summons. Ten minutes later Kien Phuc stepped out the back door into the alley. Wyrm was with him. The joker reached for a gun, then hissed as Brennan slowly turned and notched a heavy broadhead hunting arrow in his bow and leveled it on Kien. Tachyon released the compulsion, and the Vietnamese waved his joker/ace down.
Tachyon spread his hands in welcome. “Won’t you join me, Mr. Phuc? While our two lieutenants keep us and each other honest.” Tachyon proffered a plate, shrugged when Kien remained motionless. “You have … irritated me, Mr. Phuc, but I was pleased when you tried your pathetic seizure of my clinic. It gave me the opportunity I had been seeking.”
“For what?” Kien’s voice grated out like rusty machinery starting after years of neglect.
“To warn you. I am a bad enemy to make,” the alien said brightly, and spread jam on a croissant.
“What do you want?”
“First, to demonstrate how easily I can take your mind and compel you to do anything. Second, to make it clear to you that Jokertown is my territory, and third, to reach a truce.”
“Truce?”
“I have my own interests to pursue, just as you have yours. Yours include prostitution and numbers running and the drug trade, but they will not include protection rackets and extortion and gun battles in my streets. I want my people safe.”
Kien’s eyes slid to Brennan. “Is this trained jackal yours?”
“Oh, no, he too has his own interests to pursue.”
Brennan’s gray eyes stared implacably into Kien’s black ones. “I’m coming for you, Kien.”
Tachyon smiled. “You have people who can kill me from the shadows. I have people who can do the same to you. Stalemate.”
“You won’t interfere with my business?”
“No.” Tachyon sighed. “I suppose it shows a distressing lack of morality on my part, but I am not a crusader. Men will still crave women, and women will sell themselves to satisfy those cravings, and drugs will be sold and consumed. We are, alas, not angels. But I insist on peace in my streets.” Tachyon lost his light, bantering tone. “There will be no more children dying in senseless gun battles in Jokertown. And my clinic and my patients will be safe.”
“What about Jane Dow?”
“That chip is not up for discussion in this negotiation, Mr. Phuc.”
Kien shrugged. “All right.”
“Are we agreed?”
“I agree to your terms.”
Tachyon grinned. “You should never plan a double cross in the presence of a telepath. Brennan, kill him.” The Vietnamese blanched.
“Wait, no wait, wait!”
“All right, let us try it again. Are we agreed?”
“Not quite,” Kien ground out. He stared at Brennan, who returned his gaze levelly. “I received a message from you some time ago.” Brennan nodded. “This is my reply.” Hate and fury laid a rough edge on the man’s voice, and he pointed his half-hand at Brennan as if it were a weapon. “If you persist in annoying me, if, as you say, you bring me down, then I will have nothing left to live for. And then, I swear to you, this Wraith, this Jennifer Maloy, will die. Back off, Captain Brennan. Back off and leave me in peace or she will die. This is my promise to you.”
Tachyon looked from Kien to Brennan. The archer’s face was as hard and unyielding as a clenched fist.
“You weary me,” snapped Tachyon. “Your threats weary me. Go!”
And he sent the Vietnamese and his jackal Wyrm trotting back into the building.
Tachyon was feeling pretty jaunty when he returned to the clinic. He paused to gleefully pat each stone lion, then trotted up the stairs. Croyd couldn’t remain awake much longer. Surely his contagion power would fade in the next transformation. Kien was, for the moment, neutralized. Of course the Vietnamese would go back on his word, but perhaps by then Brennan would have achieved his goal, and Kien would no longer be a problem.
Tachyon headed into the basement and shut off the elaborate series of electronic locks that protected his private laboratory. It was here he manufactured the drug for Angelface and pursued his research for a perfected trump virus.
It was force of habit that drove him to draw blood and begin the XVTA-test. He was obviously fine. The Ideal and the percentages had been with him last night.
He slipped the slide into the electron microscope, focused, and read his fate in the tangled web of the wild card.
With a cry he swept a tray of slides and test tubes onto the floor. Beat his fists on the table, screaming out denial.
Calm, calm! Stress could trigger the virus.
Quietly he righted his stool, sat with folded hands, and considered. If it manifested, he would most likely die. Acceptable. He might become a joker. Unacceptable. The trump? A last resort.
Jane!
The irony of an impotent man being saved through sex struck him, and he laughed. When he realized they grew from hysteria, not humor, he stifled the wild whoops.
And the future?
Search for Jane. Remove as much stress as possible from his life. Go on living. The house Ilkazam did not breed cowards.
And most important: Blaise.
The boy was all he had now. His blood and seed were poisoned. There would be no other children.
