Busted Flush wc-19

by George R. R. Martin

  I also blew off Fortune. In his case the number of calls did not indicate urgency, merely hysteria.

  Flint wanted to know if my father was all right. That rather touched me. But lest I think he was going soft when I called him back he told me to do my damn job. He wanted a report from Mecca now. What was the status on the search for the living bomb?

  “I’ll get on it, sir. Who do I talk to in Nigeria?” “Forget Nigeria. It’s pretty self-evident what’s going to happen there.” And he hung up.

  After checking in on Dad, I changed clothes and made the transition to Bahir. Niobe came in as I was settling the black rope Igal over the ghutra. She stepped back and I realized she had only seen Lilith.

  “Oh, sorry, this is the day avatar. Bahir at your ser vice.” I sweep her a bow. “Hell of a fellow, isn’t he? Much more virile than that effete Englishman.”

  Now she’s smiling and she comes into my arms. “I prefer the Englishman.”

  “What about the elegant Euro-trash?”

  “I am not that broad-minded.” I laugh at her expression and she tugs hard on the edge of my mustache.

  “Ouch.”

  “You won’t be gone long?” she asks. Anxiety clouds her green eyes like emotional cataracts.

  “No.”

  It speaks of such insecurity, but she often hugs herself tightly. She’s doing it now. “I just get afraid when you’re gone.”

  Since all I’ve done is go to the market once since we’ve been here I decide not to tell her I’m going to Mecca. “You’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll tell the kiddos good-bye?”

  “Of course.”

  Gabriel, Delia, and Iolante are in the backyard. Gabriel is turning the flower beds into riots of blossoming flowers. The clashing perfumes are almost overwhelming. Iolante flits about half dancing, half flying. Delia is surrounded by rabbits, squirrels, dogs, a few mice, a mole, a pony, and God help me, a milk cow who lies in the grass contentedly chewing her cud.

  “You have to put them back from wherever you summoned them,” I say sternly as I kiss the top of her head.

  “Finders keepers,” she says.

  “I will not be known as a horse thief and a cattle rustler,” I say.

  “Have fun,” says Gabriel with an off-handed wave.

  “Be careful,” says my princess.

  Bethany is in the kitchen with Drake. They are making tea. Whatever Bethany is creating out of the ingredients on the counter smells wonderful. I dip a finger into the batter and get my hand slapped.

  “No, Daddy, not ’til it’s cooked.”

  “You’re in charge,” I tell Drake and then I can put it off no longer. I picture Siraj’s hotel room and make the jump.

  He’s behind the desk twining a pen between his fingers. Siraj is not a restless man and anxiety goes shivering down my spine. Perhaps it’s because of the way he trapped me in my Noel form back in Cairo, but I allow my soft peripheral vision to take over and I catch a sense of movement behind a connecting door of the suite.

  I’m teleporting even as a blinding flare of pain rips through my side. I need to concentrate before I jump. Think about where I’m going. Visualize the place. This time it’s purely unconscious. I hit the ground amid the piping screams of children. I’m lying on my back half in and half out of the sandbox at the local playground in Cambridge. My father had taken me there to play when I was a kid.

  My left hand is slick and sticky with blood as I press it hard at the point of my agony. I’m six blocks from home. But I can’t go home like this. Niobe will freak. I roll over and manage to get to my knees. The swings on the tall steel swing set are swaying lightly in the breeze, the chains squeaking. I realize that blackness seems to be closing in from either side, narrowing my focus. I need a doctor. Now!

  I concentrate and find myself collapsing among the chairs in the emergency room of Charing Cross Hospital. Their clattering is like the distant sound when a row of punting poles goes tumbling. There is again screaming. I can feel my body morphing and shifting and it hurts like hell where the bullet hit me. The screams start again at higher intensity, then rough hands grip my shoulders and legs, there’s the sound of tearing as my shirt is torn open. They’re trying to drag my hand away from the wound. There’s enough of them so that eventually they succeed.

  The first thing I see when I awaken is the puke-colored curtain that has been drawn around my bed. Beyond the cheesy fabric comes the beep and wheeze of medical equipment, the sounds of coughs and moans, and a querulous old voice calling, “nurse, nurse.” My torso is swaddled in a tight bandage from just below my nipples to just above my navel. It hurts to sit up, but I manage and pull back the curtain. Through a window I can see a night sky. Shit, Niobe is going to be so worried.

  The next thing I notice is the broad back of a copper. The rattle of the curtain rings has him turning around. Of course. I arrived as an Arab man, and I was armed to the teeth.

  “There now, sir, you just settle back down.”

  I hold up a hand. “I’m Noel Matthews, ID number 232751. You need to call the office of the Silver Helix.”

  We have a pretty decent quality of cop in this country. They don’t argue, they take the obvious step when presented with information—they check it out. After a call to his superior officer, and a call back from said officer, the cop is flapping his hand at me and saying, “You ought to take it easy, sir,” as I am pulling the IV out of the vein in the back of my hand.

  “I’ve got to get home.”

  Twenty minutes later they’ve brought me clothes, returned my pagers, cell phone, weapons, cash and wallet with Bahir’s information, and the idiot doctor is still remonstrating with me.

  There is a text message on my Noel cell phone. Call me, Siraj. My spine seems cold and not just because of the open back of the hospital gown. Flipping open the phone I call him.

  “Siraj, dear fellow, haven’t heard from you since I escaped your hospitality in Cairo.” I fill my voice with that insufferable British drawl that makes almost everyone in the world hate us. Particularly if they’ve been crown colonies.

  “Yes, and now I have a pretty good idea how you did that.” His tone is equally conversational. “I also understand why Bahir was so quick to kill Abdul and switch allegiance to me.”

  “Pity it turned out so badly. How did you figure it out?” I’m actually curious.

  “Bahir was a hick from Afghanistan, or Kazakhstan, Baluchistan, or some other fucking stan. But suddenly he begins to show a great deal of sophistication. And then there was the little trick with the cards. Not to mention your stunning failure to locate the boy. You’re too dangerous to be allowed to live, Noel. I will try to have you killed.”

  “Well, thanks awfully for the warning.”

  “A gesture to our past friendship,” he says.

  “You won’t target my family?”

  “No,” and I hear fourteen years of British public school and sportsmanship on the cricket pitch echoing in his voice.

  “Good of you. I have to go now.”

  I hang up, force the doctor, the cop, and the orderly to go the hell away, and pull shut the curtain around my bed. I feel the ban dage slip as my waist narrows as I make the transition to Lilith. I picture the front hall of the house and jump.

  Cordite has a distinctive smell. I know it well. I’ve shot a lot of guns over the past seven years. Someone has fired a gun in my parents’ home. I struggle into a shuffling run, cursing Siraj with every breath. “Dad! Niobe!”

  I find them in the study. Dad is out of bed. His skin is gray and seems to be drooping off his bones. Dark circles are under his eyes, and there’s a smear of blood on the back of his hand where he’s pulled out his IV. I look down at the scabbed bubble of blood on my hand. He is standing next to the wing-backed chair, using it for support. Niobe is curled up in the chair. Dad’s free hand is softly stroking her shoulder. On the threadbare oriental rug there is a wet smear. I’ve seen it before—on a threadbare spread in a ho
tel in Texas. I plunge out of the room and find the other three. One in the hall. One in Drake’s bedroom. The other in the kitchen. My children. Dead.

  I return to the study and Niobe looks up at me. I seem to be staring into an infinite darkness. Her face is rigid, and tear-stained. “They took Drake,” she says. “A stone giant and a bunch of men with guns. The kids tried to stop them. Protect him.” I hear or at least think I hear the accusation. You weren’t here. You didn’t keep us safe. Why weren’t you here? “They killed them. I felt the bullets.” She lays a hand on her chest. “It hurt so bad. I couldn’t do anything.” Her voice is shaking. It translates into her body. She’s shuddering like a woman lost in a blizzard.

  I kneel next to her, my arms outstretched, hanging in the air an inch or so from her body as if held back by an unseen barrier. She falls against me and Lilith’s long black hair hides us. Rage engulfs me. Rage at all the masks. I will be myself and they will fucking fear me. Niobe gasps a little as she feels my body morph against hers. But then I’m back and she rests her head on my shoulder with the air of a bird settling into its nest. “They’ve taken everything from me,” she says, so quietly that it’s more like puffs of air against my cheek.

  “I’ll get him back for you. I swear I will if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Her arms close convulsively around me, and she whispers something that I can’t hear.

  “What, honey, I didn’t—”

  Dad suddenly pitches forward. I jump up, feel the stitches in my side give way and the tickle of blood running down my side, but I manage to catch him before he hits the ground. Niobe is at my side, brushing the tears off her cheeks.

  “We need to get him back in bed,” she says.

  A clawlike hand seizes my forearm. “They put him in the back of a big truck.” My father’s voice is like stone on a file. “It was bloody strange. It started driving. Very fast. Then it was gone.”

  Niobe reads something in my expression. “What? Does that mean something?”

  “Yes, darling, it means I know how to find Drake.”

  The pub is empty at 3:00 A.M. The truck is parked out front, the streetlights glittering in the raindrops dappling the hood and roof. The silly little bell tinkles madly as I push through the door. Beneath the long leather coat I’m wearing tight leather pants and a laced vest that pushes up my breasts. Bruckner only knows Noel.

  He knows I’m an ace. He knows I’m a killer. He doesn’t know my power. That leaves Lilith free to do her job—get me close.

  The fat bartender looks up from his washing. A glass hangs in his hand slowly dripping soap suds off the rim. The Highwayman is at his table by the window, but instead of watching his truck, Bruckner’s watching me. His face is slack with lust. I saunter over to him. His eyes follow every undulation of my hips and sway of my hair. I’m reminded of a fakir in India I once saw dancing with his mesmerized snake. I lean down and whisper in Bruckner’s ear, “I hear you’re a man who can give me a ride.”

  “Which kind you want, love?” The last word turns into a whistle of pain as I reach into his crotch and close my fist around his balls.

  “The kind that takes me to the boy.”

  The bartender yanks up a rifle from behind the bar. The silenced Glock coughs once and the bullet takes him between the eyes.

  “You crazy bloody bitch!” Bruckner gasps.

  “Try bastard,” I say and let my body slide and twist back to myself.

  “Jesus!”

  “Not to sound like the hero in one of those dreadful American action movies, but you will be seeing him if you don’t answer my question.” I grind the muzzle of the gun into his temple, and tighten my grip on his nads.

  “You know I can’t do that, lad.” Pain has him panting between the words, but now that he knows it’s me he seems more relaxed. “Captain’d skin me alive.”

  “Actually he wouldn’t. But I would. Where’s the boy? Where did you take him?”

  He shakes his head. I release his balls, and pull handcuffs out of my coat pocket. Once he’s secure I get down to business.

  For all his bravado and bluster it actually doesn’t take that long. The wood floor is sticky beneath the soles of my high-heeled boots. Bruckner’s blubbering. The wet sounds become words forced between split and swollen lips, “Nigeria. Took him to Nigeria. Dumped him out in front of the PP army. Captain’s orders. Not my fault. Just doing my duty.” He sees something in my face and screams out, “Don’t hurt me anymore! Christ Jesus, no more!”

  I put away my knife and draw my pistol. Then I look, really look, at the scene around me. The dead man. The nearly naked old man on the floor in front of me with pieces of skin missing. Blood staining the wood floor. I think about Niobe. How she would see this scene. How she would see me. How she would look at me.

  I return the gun to its holster. “Congratulations. You get to retire. Tell Flint to expect my resignation later.”

  “He’ll never let you live. Not after this.”

  “Yes, I think he will. I’ll be much more talkative after death. It would look so very bad for the Silver Helix and the government. Ta.” And I lock the door behind me as I leave.

  I look like an S&M drag queen sashaying down the street. I need to change and make preparations. If Drake can’t control his power I’m going to need protection. As for finding him . . . well, if he’s blown, that won’t be a problem.

  A Hard Rain Is A’Going to Fall

  Victor Mián

  “DOLORES, CHÉRIE! THERE YOU are.”

  Already elevated, Dolores’s heartbeat seemed to stumble in her chest at the voice behind her. Having one’s name called by Alicia Nshombo was always cause for concern. Even when she had just hung a medal around one’s neck in front of the global media and the adoring populace of Kongoville.

  She turned. The corridors of Mobutu’s erstwhile palace were bright and airy, belying the compound’s fortresslike construction. High windows let late-morning sunlight pour in to raise a glow from whitewashed walls. Native flowers burst from vases in niches like static explosions of color. Floral-patterned carpets ran along a floor of royal blue glazed tiles.

  Dolores was lost. She had been on her way to an assignation with Tom Weathers after escaping the great public fete.

  Alicia moved toward her at a purposeful waddle. Continuing the motif she wore the same dress printed with Congolese blooms that she had at the ceremony at which she had made Dolores and Tom Heroes of the People’s Paradise, in the proudest moment of Dolores’s young life.

  The large woman was alone. Clearly she felt no need of bodyguards. Rumor said she was herself an ace, with the power to transform into a leopard. Whatever the truth, no one who feared death, or pain, would dare attempt to harm the president’s sister here in the palace.

  Alicia hugged Dolores around the waist with a big arm. Dolores felt sweat soak through the white jumpsuit she wore to her skin. The smell of violets almost overwhelmed her.

  “Your state has need of you, my Angel of Mercy,” Alicia said. Though not whispering she spoke at a low volume for her: she had a bellow like a bull hippo at need. “There is a man you must heal for us. You must tell no one. Do you understand?”

  Dolores nodded. The president and his sister—and Tom, dear Tom!—had brought order to the anarchy of Central Africa. With order came the need for discipline. The heart of discipline was obedience.

  Alicia led her up broad stairs, to a room on the second story. Dolores smelled harsh cigar smoke before they even entered the room.

  It looked like a study. Shelves of books, their dark covers age-cracked, lined the walls. The floor was hardwood with a Persian rug laid on it. A fan circled lazily beneath the high ceiling.

  A man sat smoking in a leather chair. Dolores gasped. Half the hair on his round head and his beard had been burned away; it amazed her he wasn’t literally smoldering. What of his plump pallid face wasn’t black or glaring red was gouged bloody. He wore loose blue hospital-style trousers. Bandages wrapped
his lumpy upper body. His blood had soaked them through and was actually beginning to run.

  Blood-crust concealed one eye. The other glared madly at her.

  Dolores swayed. He must have been in terrible pain. It amazed her he was able to remain conscious, let alone sit in a chair and puff a cigar.

  Alicia clucked and shook her head. “You shouldn’t smoke,” she said in English. “It is bad for you.”

  The man barked a laugh, then groaned. “I’ll take my bloody chances,” he rasped in what Dolores thought was an English accent.

  Alicia frowned and shook her head. She looked to Dolores. Dolores pressed her mouth to a line and nodded.

  She knew what she had to do. All she had to do was steel herself to do it.

  As she approached she could feel heat beating from his body as if still radiating from his burns. He must be burning up with fever, she thought. That, at least, would not affect her. Any tissue damage infection might have done would transfer to her; the pathogens themselves would not.

  There was something repellent about him. Yet he suffered. It went beyond orders, now, even from Alicia. God had given her this gift, this curse. She could not withhold it. She was the Angel of Mercy; she was Our Lady of Pain.

  She drew in a deep breath and stepped forward.

  As always it hit her hard. As always it was bad. She ground her teeth against a scream.

  “Ahh, Christ,” he said. “That’s good. That’s good, girl.”

  His head lolled on his thick neck. He grinned up at her. “At least you won’t need to grow your bloody arms back this time, eh?”

  Cold shot through the fire that enveloped her. She stepped back. Instantly it was as if a furnace door had been shut. Dolores’s cheeks felt sunburned; she felt blood run from gashes in her face and body. The torment dulled to an ache; no longer was his pain being loaded directly into her nervous system.

  Recognition came like a slap. “I saw you!” she exclaimed in French.