Ace In The Hole

"Yes. Puppetman's dead. Last night on the podium, Demise took him. Look inside me, Doctor, and tell me what you see. You didn't have to ruin me; the evil was already gone. By the time you took my mind, I was free." Gregg studied his hands. A deep sorrow welled up in him, and he looked at Tachyon with eyes that shimmered with moisture. "I would have made a fine president, Doctor. Maybe even a great one." Tachyon gazed back with unyielding steel in his gaze.

"Gregg, there is no Puppetman. There never was a Puppetman. There was only Gregg Hartma

Tachyon's harsh words were like a slap. Gregg flushed, angry that Tachyon would not understand. It was so obvious; it seemed impossible that Tachyon could not tell the difference.

"But he's (lead," Gregg cried in desperation. "I'll prove it to you. Go on," Gregg insisted. "I'm asking you to. Look inside me and tell me what you see."

Tachyon sighed. He closed his eyes, opened them. He turned away from Gregg, pacing the room silently for a long minute and then coming to a halt near the windows. When he looked at Gregg again, it was with a strange sympathy.

"You see, I told you," Gregg said, almost laughing with relief. "Puppetman died last night. And I'm glad. I'm so goddamn glad." Gregg felt the laughter becoming tinged with hysteria, and he took a deep breath. He looked at Tachyon, who stared at him sternly. Gregg raced to say the rest. "My god, the words are so fucking inadequate and stupid, but it's true. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all and I'd like to do what I can to start making up for it. Doctor, I've been made to do things that I hated. I lost a son because Gimli used Puppetman against me, I-"

"You are not listening to me. There was no Puppetman and Gimli died over a year ago. There was no Gimli either." It took several long seconds before the impact of those words sunk into Gregg. "What?" he stuttered, then the denial came fierce and desperate and angry. "You don't know what the hell you're saying, Doctor. Gimli's body died, but not his mind. He found his way into my son. He was in my head; he nearly made me lose any control of Puppetman at all-that's how all this started. He threatened me, said he was going to make Puppetman destroy me and my career."

"Gimli died a year ago," Tachyon repeated, relentlessly. "All of him. You made up his ghost yourself, the same way you made up Puppetman."

"You lie!" The word was a shout. Gregg's face was distorted with rage.

Tachyon just stared at him coldly. "I was in your head, Senator. You have no secrets from me. You are a disassociative personality. You've denied the responsibility for your own actions by creating Puppetman, and when that threatened to get out of hand, you needed another excuse: Gimli."

"No!" Gregg shouted again.

"Yes," Tachyon insisted. "I will tell you once more. There was never a Gimli, never a Puppetman. Just Gregg. Everything you did, you did yourself."

Hartma

"You did," Tachyon said, and he saw in Gregg's eyes the deep wounds each word ripped into the man's soul, even though Gregg would not admit it. Already Hartma

"Doctor, I don't know what you want me to do. Even assuming that I gave any credence at all to what you're saying-"

"Get help."

Intent on his own words, Hartma

"Get help, Gregg. Find a therapist. I'll find you a therapist-" Suddenly Tachyon realized how impossible that was. A therapist would have to be told too much, and it would all come out. Somehow, it could all unravel. Tachyon's face twisted in frustration. He did not like the only answer he could see. "We're going to spend a lot of time together, Gregg."

"What do you mean?"

"As of now, I am your physician. You are under my care." Gregg spat laughter, turning his back on the doctor. "No," he said. "Uh-uh. I don't need a damn shrink because Puppetman's gone. You're not even human, Doctor. I doubt you're particularly well-qualified to act as a psychologist."

"Consider it a compromise position. It will guarantee my silence."

"I tell you the power's gone, and the power was at fault."

"And we go around again? Admit the truth of what I'm telling you, Gregg. You won't even look at me. I saw your guilt, Gregg. You can deny-even to yourself-but I know the truth. It's time for you to start facing the reality."

Long silence stretched between them. Finally Gregg said, "All right, Doctor. I'll grant you a compromise politicians are used to them. Your silence for my business, huh? I suppose you'll need some paying customers when the funds are cut off."

Tachyon did not dignify the insult with a comment. "I will contact you as soon as I return to New York."

"Fine." Hartma

"Well, this is it, then. I'm going to pick up Ellen. She's understandably confused and hurt by all of this." The selfconscious smile flashed again. "I'm going to tell her I'm sorry, too. Goodbye for now. I guess I'll be seeing you soon…" Hartma

Tachyon stared in bitter disbelief at the proferred hand. He wondered if this was not some final, cruel joke of Gregg's. Hey, all's forgiven. Let's shake and make up. Buddies again.

But I can't shake, you bastard. You saw to that. Hartma

"Walk with me to the elevators?" asked Hartma

"I'll be calling for that appointment, then."

Tachyon watched him walk away-a soft, overweight man with pale white scalp like wings where the hair had receded. He had always thought of Gregg as a dynamic, handsome man.

Now he realized that that too had been a function of his power. Was I wrong to speak the truth about his power? Perhaps it would have been better to simply let him believe in his possession by Puppetman and Gimli.

NO! He escaped punishment. I'm not going to let him escape the guilt.

But for all intents and purposes Puppetman was dead. Now it was up to Tachyon to keep it that way. Which meant he had to remain close to Gregg Hartma

The alien walked to the stairwell. Sat down on the concrete step and leaned his head against the cold metal handrail. His arm was throbbing again, claws of pain that seemed to rip up his arm and into his shoulder. This might very well be the place where Jack had died, he thought wearily. And, right down there, Gregg killed his own child.

I'm dead too. But nobody's realized it yet because I'm still walking around.

Eight days in July. Eight days in which to lose so much: his oldest friendship on Earth; his belief and respect in Gregg Hartma

His hand.

His i

But jack hadn't died. And he wasn't dead yet either. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Tis, and get on with the business of living."

But I have to deal with Hartma