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 turbopump. 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?"