Inside Straight

by George R. R. Martin

  Wally looked up. They weren’t alone. Simoon had been joined by Holy Roller, Earth Witch, King Cobalt, Hardhat, and Bubbles.

  “We had a little vote of our own,” she said.

  King Cobalt added, “I join you in Egypt, and you join my wrestling federation.” He stuck out his hand. “That’s the deal.”

  They shook on it. “You betcha.”

  Dragon Girl squeezed in between Bubbles and Earth Witch. “Don’t leave without me! I have to get my stuffies.”

  Bubbles shook her head and waved her arms. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. No way are you coming to the genocide with us.” Dragon Girl frowned, and stamped her foot. “Maybe when you’re twelve,” said Bubbles.

  Simoon had been right about them not fitting in a taxi. Truth be known, they barely fit into the Discard Pile’s stretch Hummer, either. Wally felt sorry for their driver. On the one hand, Mr. Berman didn’t want him driving the rogue discards to the airport, and suggested that doing such would be a bad career move. On the other hand, seven aces wanted him to drive them to the airport, and suggested that not doing so would be an even worse move.

  They wove through the Los Angeles traffic in silence. It went on a long time. Long enough for Wally to wonder if people were sore at him again. Just to break the ice, he said, “So, a fella might wonder who got voted off the show. Just saying, is all.”

  Earth Witch sighed. “Rosa got knocked out. So it’s Stuntman and Curveball in the final round. Sorry, Rusty.”

  Wally shook his head. “Sounds like a good deal to me. She’ll clean his clock.” The others nodded in agreement.

  They rode the rest of the way to LAX in silence, but Wally didn’t mind so much.

  A taxi pulled up alongside them as they unloaded their luggage and argued about how much to tip their driver. (The way Wally figured it, he was probably out of a job now, the poor guy.) The back door opened, and out climbed a slim blond woman in a tank top with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The taxi pulled away.

  Holy Roller squinted. “Praise be—is that Curveball?”

  King Cobalt flashed him a thumbs-up.

  Hardhat smiled. “Fuckin’A, Rusty. Fuckin’A!” He’d been more inclined to talk to Wally after the events of the previous day. Which was nice, except that he swore so much.

  Curveball dropped her duffel bag on the curb. “Room for one more?”

  Before anybody could collect their wits enough to speak, yet another car pulled up alongside the group. This one was a silver BMW, and it screeched to a halt. Mr. Berman jumped out. “Kate! Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

  Curveball ignored him.

  “Think carefully about what you’re doing. You’re pissing away the opportunity of a lifetime, just to join some half-baked publicity stunt with a bunch of rejects. Listen to me. You don’t need them. A month from now your face can be on the cover of every magazine in America.”

  “I have thought about it. And I choose to do something meaningful.”

  Mr. Berman pressed his hands to his temples, and ran his hands through his hair. It hardly moved, it had so much mousse in it. “Kate,” he said, pointing at Wally, “just look at these freaks. You’re the most popular character on the show. You’re a shoo-in. You’re walking away from a million dollars. You’ll win if you come back. I know it.”

  Earth Witch stepped between them. “She made her decision. You need to leave now.” The others joined her.

  The network executive stared at them for several seconds. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Wally didn’t think it possible for somebody to turn so red in the face. Finally Mr. Berman said, quietly, “You’re making a huge mistake, Kate.

  The worst fucking mistake you’ll ever make.” He got back in his car. Through the open passenger-side window, he yelled, “I’ll slap you assholes with lawsuits so hard your ghosts will be lonely!”

  Wally reached out. He rested one finger on the roof of Mr. Berman’s car. The BMW peeled away. An ochre pinstripe appeared under Wally’s fingertip. Mr. Berman tumbled to the pavement thirty yards away in an explosion of orange dust.

  The others stared at him, wide-eyed.

  Wally shrugged. “Steel-frame construction. Them Germans sure do make some nice cars.” Then he hefted Curveball’s bag in one hand, his suitcase in the other, and entered the airport.

  The metal detectors would be a problem. The last time he flew, the studio had handled everything. But his friends would figure something out, he was pretty sure.

  Jonathan Hive

  Hey, Guys. My Dad’s Got a Warehouse! Let’s Put

  on a War! Posted Today 8:16 pm

  GENOCIDE, ASWAN | EXHAUSTED | “WHO BY FIRE”

  —LEONARD COHEN

  It’s been a hell of a day, but I’m still standing (in the metaphorical sense, since I’m sitting on my ass in a bar in Syrene).

  I’m falling asleep on my again-metaphorical feet here. But I’ll do the best I can to catch you folks up. A little geography first. You’ll need it.

  Okay. There are two cities at Aswan. Aswan itself is on the east side of the river, near the train tracks. The Egyptian army’s over there. In the middle of the river, there’s Sehel Island (and Kitchener’s Island, and Elephantine Island, and Amun Island with, I shit you not, a Club Med), where a bunch of the Living Gods are holed up. On the west side of the river, there’s Syrene. That’s where we are. The Aswan airport’s on our side. Got that so far?

  Okay, next (and much to my surprise), there’s not a dam. There’s two dams. The Low Dam is older, farther north (which is to say downstream—up and down the Nile’s confusing when you’re used to reading north as up) and nowhere near as apocalyptic as the High Dam. The High Dam? That’s to the south.

  When you were a kid, maybe you heard about how the Nile flooded every year. Well it doesn’t anymore. Because that whole goddam flood is stuck back behind the High Dam. I mention the dams not only because if they blow, a whole lot of people die, but also because they’re the only two ways across the river that don’t involve boats. So if you had a big infantry force bent on killing a shitload of people like, say, me, the dams are pretty much where it’s going to be an issue.

  We knew that when we got here. It also became pretty clear that the Egyptian army really wanted to get across the dam—what with their helicopters and tanks and guns and bombs and their whole fucking army, we weren’t going to be able to stop them.

  Funny thing happened, though.

  The cavalry arrived.

  The war council met at a restaurant about three blocks from the Monastery of St. Simeon. The place smelled of baked raisins and garlic, and the light from the windows made the air seem cleaner than it was. The Living Gods sat at a huge table, arguing, planning, debating, and despairing. Jonathan had picked up enough of the language to catch a word or phrase here and there, but for the most part, he and Lohengrin were excluded. Fortune—Sekhmet, really—was shouting and pounding the table, or nodding, or shaking his head and pointing east.

  “There are still the helicopters,” Lohengrin said.

  “We are aware,” Sekhmet replied, using Fortune’s throat. “But on the island, there is some protection from the ground troops.”

  Fortune didn’t look good. The whole not sleeping thing was eating at him like a cancer. And Jonathan was quite aware that neither Fortune nor Sekhmet was going to rest until the refugees were safe, or everyone died. Lohengrin was looking pretty tired, too. Sobek had lost a couple teeth. No one was doing well.

  “The problem here,” Jonathan said, louder than he’d intended to, “is that we’re fucked.”

  To his surprise, the table went quiet. He blinked. All eyes were on him.

  “Well,” he said, “we can hole up here and hope that they all just go away, but when you get right down to it, we’re fucked, right? The island is a pain in the ass for the ground troops to get to, but if they take the west bank, they can starve us out or do some kind of pincer attack or nuke us from orbit. Whatever. And everyone we mov
e to the island because it’s safer there means one less we have to defend the dams. We don’t have scorpion lady. We don’t have Horus. So, I’m sorry to say it, but I think we’re fucked.”

  “God,” a voice said from behind him. “You are such a loser, Bugsy. No wonder we voted you out.”

  Slowly, he turned.

  Curveball, a duffel bag over one shoulder. Earth Witch beside her, frowning with her arms folded. The wheelchair-bound minister, Holy Roller, smiling and avuncular even now. Hardhat, grinning. King Cobalt, maybe grinning; under the mask, who could tell? Simoon and Bubbles looking more like runway models than warriors. Rustbelt standing in the back like an old-time locomotive with self-esteem problems.

  “Uh,” Jonathan said.

  Curveball stepped forward, her duffel bag sliding to the floor. She walked past Jonathan and Lohengrin, straight to Fortune. For a moment the pair were silent. Then Fortune—Fortune, not Sekhmet—nodded.

  “So,” Curveball said, “what’s the plan?”

  They talked all night. It was epic. I slept through a lot of the last part, and more than a little, because getting a little hope can make you realize just how tired you’ve been up until then.

  The strategy was pretty basic, since none of us really knew what the hell we were doing. But we had a plan, and we had a bunch of aces and some guns and the determination that the killing was going to stop.

  And it would. Either because we’d turn them back, or they’d run out of people to slaughter. One way or the other, it was coming down there.

  We’d picked the place to make our stand.

  The moon was beautiful, a crescent of silver floating in the black sky. The city lights of Syrene and Aswan were dark, each side keeping information from the enemy. Jonathan sat on the street, his hands on his knees, looking up at the stars.

  “Hey,” Simoon’s voice said. “Bugsy.”

  He looked over his shoulder. The woman stood in the doorway of the restaurant. The voices raised in debate behind her sounded oddly joyful for a council of war.

  “How’s it going in there?” he asked.

  Simoon stepped forward, letting the door close behind her. The voices didn’t vanish, but they grew distant.

  “It’ll be a while before anyone decides anything,” she said. “But I think it’s going well. What about you?”

  “I could sleep right here in the gutter,” Jonathan said. “Seriously. Just stretch out and snooze off.”

  “Probably should. Rest, I mean. Not the gutter part.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get to it,” he said.

  “I wanted to say thanks.”

  Jonathan looked up at her. She was prettier than he remembered. She’d been good-looking, but now in the moonlight, with her hair down, she was beautiful.

  “Thanks?”

  “For butting in,” she said. “For listening in on my phone calls. For getting John Fortune involved. All like that. I wouldn’t have had the balls.”

  “I’m not sure I really did you any favors,” he said. Simoon shook her head, her gaze lifting to the buildings, the horizon, the sky.

  “No,” she said. “I’m glad. I’ve never actually been here, you know. But I’m from here. So, you know, thanks.”

  “Anytime,” Jonathan said.

  There’s a real problem playing defense. We didn’t get to pick when the shit came down. That was all them. The Living Gods took their aces and a bunch of guns across to Sehel Island. Hardhat went too, the theory being that he could build a temporary bridge with his girders to evacuate if the army managed to land there.

  Then we got ready.

  “Harder!” Bubbles said.

  Rustbelt raised his balled fist, and then lowered it. “Ah, cripes. This is just… I mean …”

  Bubbles, now looking like a woman of a healthy hundred and seventy pounds, put a hand on Rustbelt’s arm and tried to keep her temper.

  “Sweetie,” she said. “We have to get these bubbles in the air, or it’s only going to be Simoon’s sandstorm to stop all the planes and helicopters they throw at us. So it’s not really me you’re hitting. It’s them. Just think of it like that, okay?”

  Rustbelt smiled, but the expression seemed forced.

  “You ready to try again?” Bubbles asked.

  “Sure,” Rustbelt said. “Let’s try it.”

  “Okay. Beat the shit out of me.”

  Rustbelt closed his eyes and swung. The impact sounded like a car wreck. Bubbles put on another thirty pounds.

  “Much better,” Bubbles said. “Do that again.”

  “Okay,” Rustbelt said. “You know, this is really uncomfortable, though.”

  Bubbles nodded. “That speaks well of you, sweetie. Now hit me.”

  Well, folks, we didn’t know what dam they’d cross at, only that we had to hold them off at the places where they’d only be able to get at a few of us at a time. Lohengrin, Curveball, Earth Witch, and Simoon were south with almost a hundred of the followers of the Living Gods, ready to get to the High Dam if they came across there. Holy Roller, King Cobalt, Fortune, Rustbelt, and Bubbles were at the Low Dam where they actually attacked. I went with all of them.

  The Egyptian army came at us right at dawn. I always thought that was a cliché, you know? “We attack at dawn.” Turns out there’s a reason. The sun really does get in your eyes. Well, not mine, since I was mostly bugged out by that point.

  The boats chugged out from the east bank, dark marks in the sun-bright water. Hardhat and Sobek squatted by the shore. The croc-headed joker hunkered down, his hand shading his eyes.

  “This could be a problem,” Sobek said. “If they reach the island—”

  “Those dick-lickers have about as much chance of getting out here as I’ve got of ass-fucking Mother Teresa,” Hardhat said cheerfully. “Watch this shit.”

  The first girder appeared across the bow of the first boat, forcing the craft lower into the water. There was the distant sound of voice raised in alarm. A second girder appeared. The boat rode lower, water lapping up over its sides.

  The other boats hesitated as the lead craft tried to turn back to the shore. A third girder appeared. The boat sank. The boats idled and then turned back.

  Sobek chuckled.

  “Elegant,” he said. “Could you do that to all of them? If they all came at once?”

  “Probably not,” Hardhat said, folding his arms, “But I could fucking sure get the first two cocksuckers, and then let the pussies fight it out who gets to go third.”

  “They’ll have to come by land, then,” Sobek said.

  It started with a few boats putting out from the east, back toward the islands. That was just a distraction. The big push was at the Low Dam.

  It’s eighty feet from the top of the Low Dam to the river north of it. The top of the dam is about as wide as a two-lane highway and about two miles long. We’d put some barricades across it—an old bus parked at an angle, a pickup truck Rustbelt tipped on its side, some cars we’d commandeered. Every hundred yards or so, out to almost the middle of the dam, we had something to hide behind. And on the far end, the army was making cover of its own.

  That was where they came.

  We didn’t keep everyone. You should know that now. We lost one right off. But he didn’t die a stupid death. Honest to God.

  “It’s a bulletproof shield,” King Cobalt said, leaning against the upended pickup truck. “Like riot police use. I just hold it toward them like this, charge in, and when I get there, I’ll rip ’em apart.”

  Rustbelt raised a hand, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. The dam stretched out before them and behind them, water calm and glittering to the right, empty air to the left. King Cobalt crouched down behind his shield.

  “Stay behind me,” King Cobalt called out. “All of you just let me get in there and soften them up.”

  “Now, son,” Holy Roller called out, “I think you had best come on back for a bit, the both of you. We may be seeing some enemy movement. At the far end—over the
re.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Rustbelt said, and a bullet ricocheted off his chest with a sound like a piston blowing. King Cobalt lowered his riot shield, sighed, and slid to the ground. Blood poured from the back of his neck.

  “Medic!” Holy Roller yelled, pushing himself toward the fallen ace. “Get a medic over here! We got us a man down!”

  “Oh, cripes,” Rustbest said, rubbing the shiny spot the killing bullet had left on his skin. “I’m sorry, King. I didn’t… we’ll get someone…it’ll be …”

  Holy Roller reached the fallen ace, felt desperately for a pulse, and then shook his head. Leaning over carefully, the minister hooked a finger under the wrestler’s mask and gently pulled it free. The thick body thinned and diminished.

  “He’s just a kid,” Fortune said.

  “Dear Lord,” Holy Roller intoned. “I don’t know if this poor boy believed in you. I don’t even know his name, or if he was a Mexican, but he was a brave boy and he tried to do something good. I know you’ll find a place for him in Heaven, wrestling with your angels. He did so love to wrestle.”

  They all cast their eyes down for a moment. When he looked up across the dam, the old minister’s eyes were hard. On the far side of the dam, the sun was glittering off metal. A sound came like distant thunder that never stopped. Tanks were coming.

  “Time’s come,” he said. “Get on the horn to the others. It’s started.”

  The tanks came first, single file. Their guns were blazing, trying to keep us back while they pushed past or through the obstacles we’d placed in their way. It turns out if you send a bunch of wasps up the barrel of those things, it just gets you closer to the shell when it goes off. It wasn’t pleasant. But then Rustbelt was in there, howling like a banshee, and the tanks started falling apart. They shot him. They shot him a lot. When the helicopters came, the detonations began. There was so much smoke in the air, I lost some wasps just to that.