Inside Straight

by George R. R. Martin

  Michael, Rustbelt, and Bubbles were fifty yards away. It might as well have been as many miles. Rustbelt bellowed; the Djinn glanced in their direction. Michael felt as helpless as he had the night he’d seen Kate and Fortune on the television set in Rome. As helpless as he’d felt during the first challenge when none of them knew how to work together, as outmatched as he’d been when Golden Boy tossed him aside as if he were a child.

  “If the Djinn touches you, you are lost. He will slay you and drink your powers.”

  But if they didn’t have to touch him at all…

  “I’m pretending it’s the Djinn’s head….”

  Michael blinked, fighting the despair flowing from the Djinn. He tore away the remnants of the Kevlar from his chest. “Rusty, you gotta go after that fucker—make him pay attention to you somehow, just don’t let him touch you; Bubbles, can you keep him distracted, too, maybe put him off balance, the way you did Golden Boy?”

  “And what are you gonna do?” Bubbles asked.

  “Play,” Michael answered. Grimacing as aching muscles protested, he began to tap on his body with his open hands, playing on himself as if he were a set of living congas—softly at first, then louder and harder. The sound welled out from him, unfocused, echoing from the ruins of houses along the road and the ramparts of the High Dam. The Djinn turned, noticing him as his dark eyes narrowed. Michael tightened the throats of his neck, forcing the sound of the drumming into a narrow pattern, all of it aimed toward the Djinn. The Djinn grimaced as waves of percussion hammered at him. He seemed to stagger a step backward, but that was all. The wispy shadows continued to flow darkly from the screaming Fortune toward him …

  … as Rustbelt charged blindly at him; as Kate redoubled her efforts; as Klaus shook his head groggily and rose, clad again in Lohengrin’s ghost steel. They were not going to be enough, Michael knew. The shadows faded and Fortune’s screams fell to whimpers as the Djinn laughed.

  … a torrent of bubbles broke over the Djinn, crashing down on him, the impact sending his guards tumbling, as well as Rustbelt and Lohengrin. Michael struck his body harder than he ever had, as he forced his multiple throats to close even more tightly so that his own skull ached with the sound—he forced his vocal cords to contract yet further, as he imagined the bones of the Djinn’s skull vibrating and shaking, rattling in the fleshy envelope that held them and slamming the brain against its bone prison, again and again and again.

  The Djinn screamed a shrill, high cry. He dropped Fortune’s body and clapped his hands over his ears; thick, bright blood poured from his nose and mouth. He sank to his knees. Shadows whirled chaotically around him, a hundred smoky figures of those he’d consumed. Michael continued to drum, to pound at the man with sonic fists. The Djinn wailed. His head shivered, a frantic quivering that rendered his features blurred and unfocused. Blood gushed from his mouth and into his dark beard. The violent motions of his head sent droplets splattering everywhere.

  His eyes rolled back. The shadows around the Djinn fled. He collapsed, a stricken tower, crushing his guards beneath him.

  The fear that had held them all evaporated in the same moment. The guards, those still standing, gaped at their stricken commander—now just a man laying on the sand, swaddled in yards of cloth that no longer fit his entirely normal stature. A breath later, they fled, pursued by the Living Gods’ followers, who had turned with a desperate hope rising in them.

  Kate was staring at the fallen Djinn. Then her gaze moved to Michael, his hands now down at his side. In his mind, he saw the way she would smile, how the realization would dawn on her face, how she would run desperately and gratefully to him.

  She did run. She sprinted to Fortune and sank down alongside him, cradling him in her arms as they gathered around her: Lohengrin, Bubbles, Rustbelt. Several of Hive’s wasps quivered on Lohengrin’s shoulder. “He’s really hurt,” Kate said, her voice breaking slightly. “Help me. Help me get him away from here.”

  Lohengrin moved, kneeling to help her pick up the moaning, half-conscious Fortune. “No,” Michael called to the ace. His throat openings ached and the words grated. “I’ll get him for her.”

  He lifted Fortune in his many arms. With Kate alongside him, stroking Fortune’s bloodied hair and crooning encouragement, he walked from the battlefield with the rest of the injured, his own great wound invisible.

  Blood on the Sun

  Melinda M. Snodgrass

  GOLDEN LIGHT STROBED ACROSS the white plaster walls as Bahir teleported into the room. The young soldier, his cheeks downy with the fragile growth of his first beard, gave a grunt of alarm, and the machine gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Bahir caught the weapon before it could hit the floor and discharge. He handed it back to the boy, and felt the stitches in his right shoulder twinge.

  “Go,” Bahir said. He had to repeat the command to be heard over the panicked shouts from the street below, the whine of a helicopter engine ramping up, the occasional chatter of gunfire, and the moaning wail of the wind tugging at the eaves of the mansion. The boy gulped and left.

  The bedroom looked like the erstwhile ace Simoon had swept through. Carpets were missing. The silver coffee set that had been Abdul’s pride—and the source of so many tantrums when the coffee had been poorly prepared—was gone. The Caliph himself lay on the wide bed shrouded by the white mosquito netting, writhing and rolling, biting at the corner of a pillow, and emitting shrieks of rage and grief.

  The door to the room flew open, and slammed against the wall. A panicked officer rushed in. “Caliph, we must flee. The aces may come.” He broke off and blurted, “Bahir. The battle … ?”

  “Lost.”

  There was a moan from the bed.

  “We’re safe for the moment, but I would not linger.”

  Abdul quailed before the burning gold eyes.

  “Retreat?” the officer said.

  “Yes,” Bahir said, and waved him out. He crossed to the bed. A broken mirror on the floor gave back a crazy kaleidoscope image of himself. The usual brilliant gold and red luster of his hair and beard were dimmed by a coating of sand, and the edge of his golden cloak was stained with blood and dirt. Blood also stained the front of his shirt where the cut from Lohengrin’s sword had broken open again. Bahir dropped onto his knees at the side of the bed. The rank smell of fear-driven sweat stung Bahir’s nostrils.

  “Lost. Lost. Allah turns his face from me.” The Caliph’s voice held the same moaning wail as the wind that shook the windows with a booming hum.

  “The Djinn was powerful, but you are the son of the Nur. Let us exact vengeance on the West.” It was a subtle push. It was never wise to let the Caliph think you were instructing him.

  Abdul-Alim sat up and mopped his face on his sleeve. He was an unlovely sight, with his swollen, reddened eyes and red nose dripping snot. There were painful welts on his cheeks where he had been stung by the American ace’s wasps. “The UN secretary-general,” he said. “You said to invite him. If he hadn’t been here I couldn’t have seized him.” Abdul’s tone was querulous.

  “Well, now we can use him. You can show them the justice of the Caliph.”

  Abdul stood up and paced. The broken mirror cracked beneath his booted feet. “Yes. Yes. I warned them what would happen. His blood will be on their heads. I think I should kill him, yes?”

  Bahir bowed his head. “What is your command?”

  “Yes, yes, kill him.”

  Bahir felt a momentary flare of joy. At last. “It will be done. But, my lord, you must tell me where you have hidden him. When last I checked, he had been moved. I hope at your command.”

  The narrow lips stretched in a cunning, self-satisfied smile. The Caliph rested a hand on Bahir’s head, then slid it down and across his cheek. The palm was moist with sweat. Bahir felt his own sweat trickle like an insect crawling through the hair at his temples, and burn in the sword cuts. Each throb of his pulse counted the passing seconds. “I hid him in the burial chamber of the Great Pyramid
.”

  And as Bahir swept his golden cloak around himself, and felt that nerve-deep stretch and pop, he reflected how the choice of hiding place exemplified everything that was wrong with Abdul-Alim.

  His arrival never made a sound. When he left a space there was a faint pop, like the bursting of a soap bubble as air rushed back into the space previously occupied by his body, but the arrival was soundless. There was no warning for the four guards who sat around a card table on folding chairs. Their Uzis leaned against the legs of the chairs or were slung by their straps. A softly hissing propane lantern threw its yellow glow across the massive cut stones. Jayewardene sat on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back, his ankles bound, and his head was covered by a hood.

  Bahir drew his scimitar. The soldiers scrambled to their feet, and one tried to hide the hip flask. They salaamed. Bahir thrust the point of the sword at the man fumbling in the pocket of his fatigues “You … will be dealt with later. Now bring me the prisoner.”

  They rushed to obey. The cords around Jayewardene’s ankles were cut and he was pulled to his feet. The secretary-general almost fell again as he tried to balance on feet gone numb. Bahir sheathed the scimitar, and threw his arm around the Indonesian. Oddly, there was no comment from beneath the hood.

  But perhaps as a precog he was expecting this, Bahir thought.

  “Turn around,” he ordered the soldiers. The sand gritted on stone as the men shuffled around until their backs were to him. Bahir drew his pistol, and shot them in the back of the head with two quick double taps. There were shouts from up the corridor. Bahir flung the cloak around himself and Jayewardene, concentrated, and teleported. They were gone before the reinforcements arrived.

  He dropped the secretary-general in an auto graveyard in New Jersey, across the river from Manhattan. The air held the tang of brine and oil from the passing ships, and the rusting hulks of old cars loomed all around them.

  The hood covering Jayewardene’s head fluttered as he sniffed. “I do hope you’ve left me reasonably close to the UN,” he said mildly.

  “Reasonably,” Bahir said in English. “You show an admirable calm.”

  “This was a time I saw true. May I know my rescuer?”

  “Sorry. No.” Bahir laid his hands on the man’s narrow shoulders and turned him a hundred and eighty degrees. “You’ll get wet and muddy, and perhaps fall a time or two, but if you walk straight ahead you’ll come to a road. Someone will stop. Eventually.”

  “You have a low opinion of people,” Jayewardene said gently.

  “They so rarely disappoint me.” Bahir teleported away.

  There were more people in the room when he returned, and Abdul-Alim was regaining his swagger. One of the Egyptian generals was arguing that the Caliph should stay in Cairo while the Baghdad advisors stuttered their objections. Abdul pushed through the crowd. There was an eager light in his brown eyes.

  “Is it done?” he asked.

  “Almost,” Bahir said. He gripped Abdul on the particular pressure point on the elbow that delivers paralyzing pain, swept his cloak around them, and teleported away.

  The wind that cried like the souls of the dead in Aswan also blew in Cairo. As Bahir and Abdul-Alim appeared in the center of the marketplace, Bahir heard the dry clacking of the fronds on the palm trees that clashed and shook under the wind’s assault.

  Open-air stalls filled the dusty square, but the sellers of Egyptian souvenirs were absent. There had been no tourists in Cairo for many weeks. Instead, the stalls held foodstuff and cooking oil. The smell of overripe melon mingled with the pungent, oily smell of kerosene, and that of coffee. The shrouded figures of women with baskets over their arms glided between the stalls. In cafes, men in keffiyehs drank the thick coffee, played dominos, and argued.

  Their sudden appearance stopped every conversation, and pulled a few screams from the heavily veiled women. Bahir transferred his grip from Abdul-Alim’s waist to the nape of his neck. With his other hand he drew his scimitar.

  “What are you doing, fool? Take me back at once!”

  Bahir ignored him. He filled his lungs so deeply that he felt pressure against the waistband of the trousers that he wore beneath his dishdasha and jalabiya.

  “Hear me! Abdul-Alim has led the armies of the faithful to humiliating defeat at the hands of Western crusaders and abominations! His foolishness has cost the life of our great hero. The Righteous Djinn has fallen.” A moan ran through the listening people. “The caliphate will fall, the oppressors will return.…” The moan became a roar. “Unless…” The roar was muted. “… we unite behind a true leader, a great leader. Not this weak and useless man.”

  Bahir gave Abdul-Alim a hard shove. The Caliph staggered a few steps, struggled to keep his footing, failed, and fell forward onto his hands. Bahir ripped away Abdul-Alim’s keffiyeh. Gripping his scimitar in two hands, he spun in a dervish’s dance and swung the blade. It whistled through the air. Bone and sinew offered momentary resistance, then blood jetted from the severed neck. Abdul-Alim’s head fell with a meaty thwack onto the flagstones.

  There were screams and wails. Bahir thrust the bloodcoated blade into the air. “PRINCE SIRAJ! LEADER OF THE ARAB PEOPLE! SIRAJ!”

  For a moment there was confused silence, then a few tentative voices began. Siraj. Siraj. Siraj. More and more people took up the name. Soon it was being shouted, and people went sprinting away down the narrow streets to spread the word. People still loyal to Abdul the Idiot drew knives and flung stones.

  Bahir swung his cloak and teleported away as the riot began in earnest.

  He reappeared on the grounds of the Mena House Hotel. The long shadow of the Great Pyramid fell across the date palms and jasmine-scented gardens. Bahir looked up at the rough sandstone blocks marching toward the pinnacle. The westering sun sent the shadows of the palm trees across the manicured golf course and up the walls of the hotel. The way the shadows fell created the impression of lines on paper waiting for a mighty pen to write a message.

  And the message is—Britain is back, Bahir thought.

  He closed his eyes and prepared himself. If teleporting left him feeling as if every nerve, bone, and sinew in his body had been plucked like a violin string, the transformation was even more disturbing. It burned along his nerve endings as he watched the skin on his hands lose the golden tan and the blond hair on the joints of his fingers turn brunette. His hair now brushed at his collar, and his face felt vulnerable as the beard vanished. He felt his body lengthening, as if invisible hands pulled at his flesh like the hands of a potter coiling soft clay. It pulled at his wounds and hurt like the very devil. Finally it ended.

  Noel pulled off the cloak, folded it into a small square, and tucked it beneath his arm.

  He sauntered toward the hotel accompanied by the whirr and clack of the sprinklers anointing the grass of the golf course with the waters of the Nile. He chose a service entrance, picked the lock, and slipped inside. The generators rumbled with a sound like the breathing of a massive beast, as they pushed the air-conditioned air through the hotel.

  Back in his room, he washed away the dirt and blood and laid a sulfa-coated bandage over the wounds on his shoulder and belly. He hissed at the medicine’s bite, but felt satisfied. He had been hurt worse and for a less successful result.

  He made a few phone calls and then dressed once more in his signature black leather jacket, black silk shirt and tie. Noel strolled down the main staircase. In the lobby, the desk clerks continued their work, answering the phone with soft voices, writing down messages, and placing the notes in room slots. A waiter paced cat-footed across the lobby, carrying a scotch and soda balanced on a tray. Only a few miles away Cairo was in flames, but here wealth buffered all.

  Noel used a house phone to call Siraj. A few moments later one of the prince’s bodyguards appeared to escort Noel to the royal suite. Noel pushed past before the guard could knock, and entered without waiting for permission.

  Siraj stood frowning at the tele
vision screen where Al Jazeera ran a constant kaleidoscope of changing images: the battlefield, the riots in Cairo, the fleeing armies of the caliphate, the great glowing lion, the jokers dancing on the ruins of Philae. Their twisted forms made it look like a scene from The Inferno.

  “Hello, President,” Noel said, and he flashed a smile at Siraj. The prince’s frown didn’t fade. Noel walked to the table that held an array of bottles. He picked them up one after the other. Not one of them held an alcoholic beverage. It made him oddly uneasy, but Noel shook it off and continued. “A BBC camera crew is on the—”

  “I prefer to announce that I’ve taken control on Al Jazeera.”

  Noel pushed down the flare of annoyance that roiled briefly in his gut, then threw up a hand. “Fine. I’ll push back the time with the BBC.”

  “You don’t understand me. I will not speak to any Western media outlet.” The prince’s tone was flat, and devoid of emotion. The anger was gone, replaced with a flutter of concern. Not in their years as roommates at Cambridge or in the years subsequent had Noel ever heard such a tone out of the Jordanian.

  Noel decided to change the subject. Let Siraj have his little glamor fit. “You’ve got an ally in Bahir,” Noel said. “He killed Abdul the Idiot and declared for you.”

  “That’s an ally I’m not sure I want,” Siraj said. “Isn’t he driven by religion?”

  Noel shrugged. “Oh, here’s something else you should announce. Agents of the Silver Helix freed Jayewardene, so do take a bow for that as well when you assume control.”

  “You should not have done that. He was our hostage. My hostage.”