Inside Straight

by George R. R. Martin

  Berman’s only response is a microscopic raise of his right eyebrow. “If only your wit had been more apparent on camera. I’d wish you good luck, but why be hypocritical about it?”

  The exec is out the door before Jamal can press him. He can only turn to Dyan, who is staring, eyes wide in shock. “Wow. I knew Michael was a tough customer, but …”

  “Well, we’ve had our moments.”

  “Thank God he can’t control the voting.” The final winner on American Hero will be selected by votes from the global audience—texted calls that, in the best American tradition, will be charged by the call. The ace with the richest fans around the world would win.

  “Can’t he?” Jamal says. American Hero was television, not politics. The producers could rig it any way they wanted.

  “Just remember,” she says, putting her hands on his shoulders in a very manly, almost coachlike way, “this is nowhere near the worst experience of your career. Remember Riders to Las Cruces?” His only Western, a low-budget nightmare.

  “I’ve been trying hard to forget it for the past two years.”

  “Well, no matter what happens, you’ll have serious heat.” The agent’s kiss of death. As if unconsciously literalizing the idea, Dyan gives him a friendly peck on the cheek, and leaves him.

  All Jamal can do now is pace. He thinks back on the appearance at the school and has no memory of anything he or Rosa said. Back to the last few challenges—back to that day on the road to Griffith Park Observatory.

  Don’t look back, look forward!

  Wearing the headset that has by now become a permanent part of her head, Eryka knocks on the door to the locker room. “Show time.”

  Feeling like a prizefighter headed for the arena, Jamal emerges. The hallway is still empty, but he can feel vibrations through the floor. Only now does he realize he will be in front of a live audience. Odd to think that in five years as a stuntman, two years as a film and theater major, he has only performed in front of a group larger than a production crew three times—all today.

  You’d think he’d be used to it.

  Music blasts as Eryka opens the door. The noise has heft, like a strong wind, an effect no doubt heightened by the difference in air pressure between the claustrophobic hallway and the open stage and theater.

  With the sharp rise in noise comes a corresponding loss of light: it is dark backstage. Jamal blinks, stumbles, feels a hand grabbing his arm. “Careful!”

  It’s Rosa, visible now as Jamal’s eyes adjust. He nods a thank you as he feels the flurry of activity around them—production assistants, grips, stagehands, all in motion, a voice penetrating the curtain that separates them from the set and hundreds of fans.

  “God, I hate this,” Rosa says. The simple admission wins her Jamal’s eternal gratitude and affection. They are soldiers in the same foxhole. He actually feels—fleetingly—that it would be okay if she won. “I’d rather be trying to lift Holy Roller.”

  “Yeah,” Jamal says, “or trying to get Spasm to shut up.”

  The curtain opens. They are blinded by the light.

  When Jamal can see again, he finds himself on a platform with Peregrine and Rosa. All around the platform are life-size Jetboy statues. There is a flat-panel television screen the size of Vermont to his right, facing the audience. In front of him, behind Peregrine and Rosa, is a low set of bleachers. And sitting there, wearing what can only be described as shit-eating grins: Pop Tart, Toad Man, Brave Hawk, the Candle—at least ten of the discards. Jamal can’t be sure, because his vision is still being blasted by lights, and Peregrine is talking, commanding him to turn his attention to the audience.

  The stands are filled. In the front row, Jamal can see his mother and Big Bill—God only knows what lies Berman had to tell to get his father here.

  Peregrine is demanding his attention. He turns, catches Jade Blossom’s eye—and quickly turns away. Their fling turned out to be as mutually unsatisfying as it was brief.

  “Our on-line voting is open now. The number is on your screen. Text ‘R-O-S-A’ for Rosa Loteria, ‘S-T-U-N’ for Stuntman.” Jamal is still boggled at knowing that all over America, people are clicking on their computer screens or using their thumbs to send text messages. “But first,” Peregrine says, “we take a look at our fallen friends who have become…true American Heroes.”

  On the monitor, a montage of events from the earlier episodes…King Cobalt… Simoon…Hardhat… God only knows how long it took the editors to find footage that made these guys look that good.

  They have managed to score the tribute with a tune that recalls the Navy Hymn. Strangely, surprisingly, Jamal finds tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t even like these aces—the ones he knew at all—yet they really did something. They weren’t playing games for the amusement of people living in trailers in Oklahoma or crammed into high-rise boxes in Yokohama, they were risking their lives.

  Losing their lives.

  The tribute ends. The camera finds Peregrine again, as she says, “Let’s have a moment of silence.”

  Jamal bows his head, even as he hears Toad Man—ten feet away—saying just loudly enough to be heard by the finalists, “Great television, isn’t it?” For an instant, Jamal wishes he could slam the Toad. But the impulse passes. Whether it is the sudden tide of good fellowship flowing from the tribute to fallen aces, or an athlete’s Zen state inherited from Big Bill Norwood, Jamal feels confident. The game is in its final minutes.

  Then he hears Peregrine announce, “In addition to the votes cast by our viewers around the world, the aces here with us tonight will also have a major say in deciding the real American Hero. Their votes, cast here tonight, will be equal to a thousand viewer votes.”

  This news hits Jamal like a blindside tackle. It’s one thing for the contest to be decided by viewers who have only watched the shows. It’s a whole different deal to let the contestants—the same aces who lost the challenges or otherwise screwed up—take out their resentments on the finalists.

  American Hero has just become a popularity contest—and Jamal’s big problem is that, while Rosa Loteria annoyed the hell out of the other aces, she never played the race card.

  Jamal and Rosa are forced to sit, smile, and react—knowing the damn director will be pulling extreme reactions from the footage—as the Candle arches his eyebrows as they watch the first challenge, aces against flames. (“God,” Rosa mutters, “I’ve heard about people being so gay they’re on fire, but give it a break.”)

  He votes for Rosa. No justice.

  Then the underwater safe under the lake—and Diver’s throaty laugh. She, too, votes for Rosa.

  Then there’s a double whammy: Brave Hawk stands to vote, and the big screen reminds the world how Stuntman turned aside the Apache’s offer of an alliance. Jamal can’t help meeting his father’s eyes, it’s clear that Big Bill never saw this episode. He just shakes his head.

  A surprise, though—Brave Hawk votes for Stuntman!

  But that bright moment is followed by the darkest of all. Jade Blossom, clearly—if the hoots of the men in the audience are any indication—the most popular American Hero contestant of all—pointedly refuses to look at Jamal as she approaches the ballot box. Even as the big screen shows footage of them kissing (how the hell did Art and his team get this?) Jade Blossom votes for Rosa.

  Toad Man votes—Stuntman! Then Pop Tart, Joe Twitch. Who did they go for? “Can you believe this? I’m losing count!” he says to Rosa.

  “Don’t worry about what’s happening here,” she says, looking baffled herself. “This is only a few thousand votes. The audience is half a million.”

  Jamal doesn’t even see the footage of the hostage challenge, or hear Dragon Girl, or have any idea how she voted. He sees one of the Jetboy statues looking down at him. Now, there was an American Hero—he didn’t ask for it, he just did the job that had to be done.

  Jamal tries to look at the scoreboard for the audience votes, but can’t see it. Of course, Berman and his t
eam don’t want the Terrible Two to know what’s coming. Jamal can only look sideways at Rosa, as Peregrine goes into a torturous spiel about how these votes are now being integrated with those of the viewing public, and offers a tortured word: “Congratulations.”

  Then he hears Peregrine say, “And the winner of American Hero is …” Jamal knows this will be dragged out, as if time weren’t already stretching. It is that endless moment between the football leaving the quarterback’s hand and its descent into the receiver’s—the hour it takes for a curveball to sail, spin, dive.…

  Suddenly the studio explodes with sound—clapping, laughing, cheering.

  He didn’t hear the name!

  But Rosa Loteria has her arm around him. “Congratulations to you, Stuntman. You played the game just right.”

  He won! Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, is the American Hero!

  The others are around him now, hands thumping him on the back (it can’t really hurt, can it?), the women kissing him (even Jade). He only registers a strange, slick, smooth hug from Tiffani before he is with Peregrine at center stage. “Are you surprised?” she’s saying. The crowd is still making noise.

  “Yeah.” Feeling more awkward in public than he has since fifth grade, he can only blurt the word. But he remembers being at the school earlier today, talking about being a hero—and he forms a speech that will dedicate this award to the aces lost in Egypt.

  But before he can speak, he sees Berman flinging his arms around like a child of six in midtantrum. “What do you fucking mean ‘we’re not on the air’?”

  The information strikes Peregrine at the same moment. Frozen smile on her face, still conscious of the cameras on her, she turns to Eryka, the production assistant. “Did I hear that? We’re not on the air?”

  “Look,” Rosa says.

  On the monitor showing the network feed, the American Hero finale is gone. In its place a middle-of-the-night scene in some European city—the hot, young South African reporter from NBC standing in front of some ornate building.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “The Hague,” Berman says. He reminds Jamal of a tire deflating.

  “What’s the Hague?” Rosa asks.

  “Home of the World Court.”

  The reporter is saying, “… brought the strong man leader of Egypt, Kamal Farag Aziz, and his whole leadership, here to the Hague.…”

  “Who brought them?” Jamal can’t see or hear.

  “Your friends,” Berman says. “Our discards.”

  “Michael, what are we doing?” Peregrine says. “Do we start over?” Berman shakes his head. “Well, fine,” she says, completely flustered. “This was going live to the East Coast. What about three hours from now?”

  “You think that’s going to be over? Look at it!”

  On the screen a group of men in chains, with CIA-style hoods, is being marched right to the front door of the Hague. Suddenly the camera finds John Fortune, grinning like…well, to Jamal, like Tom Cruise. Harrison Ford. Jack Nicholson. And there’s Lohengrin, Bugsy.

  And Rustbelt, looking more sure of himself now than he ever did during American Hero.

  They are the real heroes now.

  Rosa turns to leave. “Where are you going?” Jamal asks her.

  “Home, baby. Like everyone else.” She nods toward the audience. Those who aren’t staring at the screen, openmouthed in admiration and wonder, are jamming the aisles, talking on cell phones, clearly thinking only about the events at the Hague.

  Jamal searches for his parents. They, too, are rising from their seats, shaking their heads. All this work! All this time! And he was ready, not just to accept the money, but to be the American Hero.

  He will. It is the role of his lifetime.

  But no one will care.

  Jonathan Hive

  Daniel Abraham

  GIVE THE WOOKIE A MEDAL

  THE SRI LANKAN GUY was short. He had a small frame and moustache that looked like an apology perched on his upper lip. His hair was close-cropped and thinning. Everyone else around the table was an ace—Fortune, Lohengrin, Drummer Boy, Curveball, Earth Witch, Holy Roller, Bubbles, Rustbelt, and of course Jonathan Hive himself. Ten people, only one of them a nat.

  And yet, when United Nations Secretary-General Jayewardene spoke in his soft, thoughtful voice, it was his room. He owned it. He could have been an actor.

  “The world, in its present condition, is not acceptable,” he said the way another man might have said we should paint the house. “You here are, I think, among the most aware of this fact. The injustices committed by Abdul the Idiot were outrageous and unacceptable, and I was as aware of them as each of you. Possibly more so. Like you, I tried to intervene. Unlike you, I failed.”

  Jayewardene paused for a moment to let that sink in. Jonathan looked down at the table, suppressing a smile. It was hard not to be smug. Ever since they’d come to the Hague, they had been treated like celebrities, cheered and feted in a way that none of them had experienced since the first days of American Hero. Only it was different now. The half-hidden stares at restaurants, the strangers approaching them to ask for autographs or shake their hands. It all looked the same on the surface, but it felt different.

  Because, Jonathan thought, this time it meant something. This time they maybe actually deserved it.

  “The United Nations is, I firmly believe, a force of reform,” Jayewardene said. “The idea of universal human rights, of the dignity of life, and of the power of law and consensus cannot help but make the situation of the world community better. However, here, on my first assignment, I found myself playing the role of hostage.”

  Jayewardene smiled gently and shrugged.

  “I am not an ace,” he said. “I was, perhaps, overzealous. I have, however, learned from my error. I have been reminded that the organization I oversee is in essence powerless. I have been made to appear weak in the public eye, and appropriately so. I went to stop the genocide of Egypt, and the task was beyond me.”

  Jayewardene’s gaze traveled around the table. Jonathan thought he knew what was coming.

  “There are other atrocities in the world besides this one,” Jayewardene said. “There are dictators who traffic in slavery. There are governments who shelter terrorists and preach hatred. There are genocides. Many nations, even those that are members of the United Nations, ignore its decisions. And until now, my predecessors have relied upon the consensus of the governments of the world to take action. It has been a dull tool.”

  “You said until now,” Fortune said, leaning forward. It was the important phrase. Jonathan noticed how much better Fortune was looking now that he and Sekhmet had agreed to let his body sleep from time to time.

  Jayewardene smiled. Curveball and Earth Witch exchanged glances. Lohengrin’s chin was already sticking out about half a foot from his neck, and he was practically glowing with noble sentiment and pride. They all knew.

  “I have called you all together to make a proposal,” Jayewardene said. “Through your actions, you have become symbols of something greater than yourselves. Men and women of the West and of the East, black and white, Arab and Christian and Jew, joining together to protect the defenseless.”

  “Jew?” Jonathan said. “Who’s Jewish?”

  Bubbles raised her hand. “My mother’s side,” she said. “They’re pretty secular, though.”

  “Huh,” Jonathan said. “Well, who knew?”

  “I would like you all to consider the good that you could still do,” Jayewardene said. “I have had a proposal drawn up for the creation of a special committee. The Committee on Extraordinary Interventions. It will function through my office, answering directly to the secretary general. And I wish to extend the invitation to each of you, in recognition of your service to humanity and to myself, to join as charter members.”

  “You want us to go back out there?” Earth Witch asked. Jonathan could see the distress in her expression. He didn’t know if she was seeing King Cobalt, Simoon, and
Hardhat, or the Egyptian soldiers she herself had killed. Curveball, he noticed, was looking mighty thoughtful, too.

  “I want every dictator in the world to fear justice,” Jayewardene said. “I want every soldier ordered to slaughter innocent children to hesitate. I want every trader in slaves to sleep less peacefully. I will not ask that you place yourselves in danger if you do not wish it. Certainly, I cannot compel you.”

  Lohengrin was on his feet, armor shimmering into being, sword appearing in his hand, raised in salute.

  “My sword is yours to command,” Lohengrin said.

  There was a moment’s silence. And then Jonathan watched as they slowly rose, each of them. He tried to understand why.

  From the need to justify his father’s death, Fortune stood. From guilt over her success in burying men alive and despite her wounded body, Earth Witch. To keep her friend from standing without her, Curveball. From idealism and a competitive heart, Drummer Boy. From a belief in goodness that transcended reason, Holy Roller—well, his hand at least. Christ only knew when the last time was he’d stood up without assistance. From delight at not being discluded, Rustbelt. Jonathan didn’t know why he and Bubbles stood up. Maybe just because it seemed like the thing to do.

  “Excellent,” Jayewardene said. “This is excellent.”

  It occurred to Jonathan for the first time that the meeting table was, in point of fact, round.

  The hall was like something from an old movie. Huge curtains lined the walls, and the crowd in the seats was bigger than a rock concert. The constant flashes from the press section would be the front pages of newspapers and magazines all across the world by tomorrow.

  They were all sitting in surprisingly comfortable chairs on a dais. The slow ritual of presenting them with medals was over, but the ceremony itself promised to drag on for hours. While they waited for the next speaker to say more or less the same things, they fell—as bored people will—into conversation.

  “Yeah,” Bubbles said, “now that you mention it, I was bothered by that. I mean, he did as much as Han or Luke, right? So why wasn’t he on the dais in the last scene?”