Busted Flush by George R. R. Martin
The officers put their guns on the ground and exchanged frightened glances. Drake picked up one of the pistols and pointed it. He turned to Niobe. “Cuff them.”
She looked at Drake like he’d transformed from a fat kid into a lion, but after fumbling for the cuffs, managed to get them snapped around the cops’ wrists. “It’s going to be okay,” she said as the second of her kids joined them. He could tell from the expression on her face that Niobe was talking telepathically to her kids. It made him feel left out, but right now it was necessary.
Drake turned around to see how Bubbles was doing, just in time to see her turn to Billy Ray. “Next,” she said.
Ray bellowed and launched himself at her, landing inside the bubble ring. He punched her several times, blows designed to kill or cripple. Bubbles swelled a bit and laughed. Snarling, Billy Ray dropped to his knees and grabbed a handful of dirt, flipping it into Bubbles’s face in a single, swift motion. “Now,” he yelled.
Bubbles wasn’t entirely blinded and reacted faster than someone as big as her should have been able. She grabbed Billy Ray and rocked backward, pulling him on top of her. A large bubble formed between her and Billy Ray and she sent it, and him, rocketing into the air. Billy Ray exited the fight in a trail of expletives, some of which Drake had never heard before, as he was catapulted into the bumper cars. Runaway cars started banging into him, keeping him off balance. Niobe’s other kid, Drake realized.
Then he saw someone out of the corner of his vision. The woman in the shiny cape moved purposefully through the now-thinning globular carpet toward Bubbles, and clamped her hands on her shoulders. Drake could tell it was hurting Bubbles, but he couldn’t imagine how.
It didn’t matter what he thought, though. It was happening and he had to do something about it. He still had the gun. His dad had taught him how to fire one, but if he used it he might kill someone. One thing Drake knew for sure, he never wanted to kill anyone again, in spite of what he’d said to the cops.
He remembered his sling. With all the practicing he’d done, anything within twenty-five yards was a hittable target. That put the caped woman right at the edge of his range.
Drake pulled out the sling and tightened the loop over his pudgy, sweating finger, then fished out a stone and placed it in the pouch. He whirled it in several rapidly accelerating circles, then let go. Drake didn’t see where the stone went, but clearly he’d missed his target. Maybe by a lot. Bubbles was on one knee now and the caped woman still hadn’t let go. Drake focused his breathing like his aunt Tammy, a yoga teacher in Austin, had taught him and visualized his rock taking the caped woman in the head. He wound up again and let fly.
There was a sound like a walnut being cracked open a couple of rooms away. The caped woman collapsed. Bubbles staggered back to her feet.
Drake pumped a fat fist, but his celebration lasted no more than an instant. The giant dog had its teeth in his cuff and was dragging him away. He punched at the dog’s face, but his blow barely caught the snout. “Help!” he yelled. Niobe’s acrobat kiddo leapt to his rescue and bounded around the dog, whaling on it with her tiny fists. The dog snapped at the kid, catching a leg. The dog snapped again. For a fraction of a second the kid was free; then the dog’s teeth crashed down on her small chest with a crunch.
Drake looked into the dog’s cold eyes, wanting to gouge them out with his bare hands, but the dog continued pulling him along the ground, keeping him off balance.
There was a flash of metal. The dog howled and let him go. Niobe was holding a long sword in her hands, cocked at her shoulder for another blow. The dog bared its teeth. Somewhere nearby, a car engine revved. The dog was turning its head when the truck slammed into it, sending the canine howling into a small knot of people.
Niobe helped haul Drake up off the ground. “You okay?”
He nodded.
“This is Baxter,” she said, lifting her last kid onto her shoulder. “He can, well . . . he’s good with anything electrical.” She got into the truck on the driver’s side and set Baxter onto the seat. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Right behind you,” Drake said. He piled through the open cab door into the seat.
Drake glanced back and saw the caped woman moving. He felt relief. Billy Ray ran up and helped her to her feet. They were shouting at each other when the woman with the coal-black hair and ball-bearing eyes wrapped them in her big black cape. All three of them disappeared.
“Buckle up,” Niobe said. Her tail was taking up a lot of space on the seat. He wriggled his fingers under it and found the seat belt.
Drake frowned. “What about Bubbles? We’d be goners if not for her.” Of course, she dropped a dime on us in the first place.
Niobe glanced down at Drake’s seat belt, which he’d dutifully buckled, then looked at the rearview mirror. “I’ve got a plan for that. Hang on.”
She put the car into reverse and backed up into Bubbles. There was a heavy jolt that Drake felt in every part of his body, even though he’d braced himself. He stuck his head out the open window and looked back. Bubbles had gotten bigger. Niobe kept her foot on the gas, spinning the tires in the dirt without moving Bubbles an inch. She continued to swell in size. “Cool,” Drake said, popping his head back inside. “Smart move.”
“Time to hit the road.” She changed gears into drive and off they went. “Nobody will be following us, Baxter’s seen to that.” Baxter looked up and smiled. Sure enough, when Drake looked back, the road was empty. Every other car in Cross Plains seemed to have a dead engine.
Drake looked out the side window and watched the town roll by, which didn’t take long. He’d never seen much of the world outside Pyote. If things were different, and people weren’t chasing him and trying to kill him, this might be fun. But it wasn’t. “How much gas do we have?”
Niobe squinted to check the gauge. “About half a tank.”
Drake checked the glove compartment. In addition to the owner’s manual, maps, and receipts, there was a candy bar and a nearly full bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He pulled both out to show Niobe. “Want to split the candy bar?”
“Fine, but put the booze back in the glove compartment.”
They were munching happily on their respective halves when he heard a heavy thump above their heads and a burning piece of metal cut through the roof of the truck. Leather-clad fingers curled under the torn metal and ripped away the roof on Drake’s side. “You can’t escape, sinners.”
Drake could feel the heat from her sword and fiery wings stealing away his breath. “The bottle, Drake,” Niobe screamed. “Hit her with the bottle.”
At first, what she said didn’t register, but then he snapped to it. He snatched the Jack Daniel’s from the glove compartment, turned his body to face the woman above him, and cocked his arm. He threw it at her hard and straight and she reacted instinctively, fending off the bottle with a sweep of her sword.
The glass shattered on impact and its contents sprayed outward, immediately igniting and enveloping their pursuer like a fiery hand. The leather-clad woman lost her balance, bouncing off the bed of the truck and into the road behind them. “Jesus,” said Drake. “I forgot about her.” The wind from the hole in the cab roof whipped his dirty hair about his face. “This blows.” He looked down at Baxter, who appeared to be thinking the same thing.
Niobe was silent for the next quarter mile or so. “Drake, would you really have blown up back there?”
He gave her a look like she was from Mars. “Of course not. I mean, my power is awful and I wish I didn’t have it. I don’t ever want to blow up again. But since I’m stuck with it I might as well use it for scaring people. Sorry if I scared you, too. You’re the only friend I’ve got.”
“You did good, Drake. Particularly when you went Mike Tyson on that policeman.”
“Yeah, we’re a good team.” He patted Baxter’s head.
Drake leaned his head to one side and closed his eyes. It had been a long time since he listened to the sound of tir
Double Helix
I WILL REDEEM THEM FROM DEATH
Melinda M. Snodgrass
“KIDS COME OUT OF eggs. I really shouldn’t be telling you this. Carnifex will kill me when he gets back, but Jesus, she lays eggs,” Stuntman is saying, and his disgust is evident in the way he almost chews the words as if looking to spit them out.
SCARE has brought in an RV to serve as a command center. Outside, the fallen Ferris wheel has lost its little cars like nuts spilling from a branch. A harsh wind is blowing, carrying dust through the door to coat the floor in grit. It carries the faint scent of corn dogs and cotton candy. The wind seems to be pursuing me across continents and time zones.
“Where is the director?” I ask blandly.
A fearsome hailstorm begins beating on the metal roof with a sound like giants banging pots together. I have to lean in to hear him. I’m back to being Noel. It feels odd and I realize I have been morphing between Lilith and Bahir for days with scarcely a stop in to visit me.
“In Paris. The attorney general is arranging for a plane to get him and Lady Black back. That creepy Committee chick teleported them to the Louvre and dropped them inside.” I’m a touch offended at the appellation of creepy. That’s not how men usually react to Lilith. “Since it was after hours, every alarm in the world went off and they got arrested.”
I hide my pleasure at the memory. My last words as I dropped them and teleported away were, “Art is broadening, Mr. Ray. Take the opportunity to improve yourself.”
Stuntman shakes his head. “And the arrests aren’t going to stop there. Warrants have been issued for Bubbles and Lilith. God, I’d love it if I could catch Fat Chick before Ray gets back.”
“This Genetrix . . .,” I nudge.
“She’s gotta fuck somebody to lay a clutch, so we’ve been trying to trace her that way.”
“While I admit sex in times of stress can be a lovely release, why would she want to . . .” I make a gesture toward my trousers.
“She can’t have the clutches without sex, and the freaks are helping them. They’re like little mini-aces.” His hand indicates something about two feet tall. I have to feign ignorance, but I had seen the power at work last night. “And the powers are always different. That’s how she got out of BICC.”
I wish him luck on the search, and tell him we’ll pool information. I then step outside and proceed to backstab him. The street is awash with runoff from the abrupt thunderstorm. The air smells of ozone and dust and desert plants trying to grasp at the rare and valuable moisture. The smell of carny has finally faded.
I use my BlackBerry to log on to the VICAPP network that lists criminal activity across the fifty United States. The network tells an interesting story of two ATMs that have been mysteriously emptied of money. I’m finding it hard to read, my eyes seem filled with grit. I pop another Black Beauty and continue. The security camera on the first robbery shows only the top of a head. As if the robber is on his knees. Or a dwarf. Or perhaps . . . a mini-ace.
In the same vicinity as the ATMs there has been a rash of stolen cars, abandoned after they run out of gas, and a carjacking. One of the perps had been caught. A midget. He’s in custody in Center, Texas.
I locate the place on Google Earth, unbutton my collar and loosen my tie, and unhook my belt, transform into Bahir, and make the jump Between. It’s a relief to feel the flesh pull and shift and return to Noel. The binding in my crotch was becoming rather uncomfortable.
Center is another dismal Texas town that looks as if it has been dropped like a turd by a passing bird. It’s easy to locate the jail. I walk in. The officer behind the desk is young, with a too-prominent Adam’s apple, a shock of straw-colored hair. He tries to hurriedly hide the girlie magazine he was perusing beneath the desk. “Help you, sir?”
“Do you have an impound here? My car was jacked near Cross Plains.”
“We may have the guy.” He opens the gate and invites me back.
Jails the world over have the same smell. Stale booze, sweat, shit, piss, and blood. We walk down the hall while I check for security cameras. There is one, but the indicator light is dark. There are a surprising number of cells for such a small burg. I hear labored breathing as we approach the last one.
A tiny figure is seated on the thin mattress of the cot. He leans back against the wall, a hand pressed to his chest. He is whispering softly to himself. A prayer? A string of curses? I can’t make out the words. A shock of carrot-colored hair falls across his sweat-beaded forehead.
I shake my head. “No, not the guy.” The cop looks disappointed, but I don’t want to spend time filling out paperwork for a crime that never happened.
The street is lined with low-end businesses. I slip behind the 7-Eleven and transform back into Bahir. I make the jump directly into the cell.
The little man opens his eyes and looks up at me. They are pain-filled but brightly intelligent, with a wry light in their cinnamon depths.
“Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” he rasps.
I press a finger to my lips, lift him in my arms, and take us out of there.
It’s all mental, but I feel too tired to travel very far. I spent a relatively pleasant evening in the Old Town of Albuquerque, New Mexico, a few years back. There was a nearly deserted parking garage directly across the street. I jump us to the top floor. It’s deserted. Americans really do hate to walk. I allow my features to shift back to me.
“Thanks for the rescue,” the little man says, “but why?”
“I’m looking for Niobe,” I say as I lay him down on the cold concrete floor.
“That’s nice.”
“You’re the one who caused all the chaos at Cross Plains.”
“Yep.” The word resonates with pride and something else . . . love is the only way I can describe it.
“Got her some traveling money and a car, did you?” I kneel at his side.
“Might be.”
I keep a flask of brandy on me at all times. Along with cigarettes, a gun, and a knife, it means I’m prepared for almost anything. I hold it to his blue-tinged lips and he sips hungrily.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where to find her?”
“Nope.”
Again there is a wealth of information in a single word. There is determination and, unfortunately for me, not a hint of bravado. Clearly the homunculus is dying. Hurting it will only hasten its death, and probably won’t garner any results.
My knees are aching so I sit down and now the rough concrete is digging at my seat bones. Usually I’m not this aware of physical discomfort. I must really be tired. Trying to keep my tone very conversational I say, “You know I won’t be the only person who will figure out how to find you.”
“You seem brighter than they are,” he says.
“Granted, but they do have the resources of the American government.”
“And Mom has us.”
My reaction surprises me. Instead of finding it unbelievably creepy I find it sadly touching. “Your mom?”
There’s a faraway look in the strange eyes as if he’s hearing a distant voice. “Yes. She loves us . . . love you, too.” For an instant I think he’s talking to me, and there’s a sudden tightness in my throat. I shake my head hard. “I did my best,” he whispers softly toward the stained concrete overhead. His eyes close briefly and the pain-wracked features soften.
A pager starts to buzz. Breath-stopping panic constricts my chest and sets my gut to aching. I start pulling them out. I can’t remember where I put them. I assign pockets for each pager. Why can’t I remember? Which one is it? Oh, Christ, not that one, please. Not yet. Not yet.
It’s not the med-alert pager. It’s the Committee pager. I’m holding one in each hand. The urge to throw John Fortune against the wall is strong. Instead
“Who’s sick?” The tone is gentle.
I answer. “My dad.” Why did I answer?
“I’ve had one. Mom’s had one,” the little man adds quickly. It snaps into place. There are more than two people in this garage. She’s here, too. “So she would know when we were dying. ’Course she knew anyway. We’re part of her.”
“You always die?” A mute nod. “How many?”
“One hundred and seventy-nine. I remember all their names.”
“He has a name?”
“Of course I do. I’m her son, I’m Baxter. You don’t forget your children.” I’m suddenly back in my parents’ yard.
“And what did you get?”
“You.”
The sob erupts from my chest, tears across my throat, and echoes in the garage. The little man lays a hand on my arm. I wave him off with one hand, cover my eyes with the other. “I’m all right. Just tired.”
I pull away my hand and stare into his eyes. Can she see me? Or does she only know what he’s telling her? I try to look through him to the woman. “I’ll bring him to you.”
“What?”
“I can bring him to you. So you can see him before he dies. I just need to know where you are.”
“Don’t do it, Mom. It’s a trick. He’ll hurt Drake.”
“No!” Urgency makes my voice rough. “Don’t let him die without seeing you.” It hurts to swallow. I don’t know this man who’s suddenly living inside my skin. Bloody hell, I’m melting down. Dad, are you listening?
The homunculus grips my hand. “She says to bring me to her,” he whispers, and he tells me where they are.
It’s like carrying a corn husk or a nautilus shell when the inhabitant has vacated. I can’t pinpoint a hotel room so we arrive in the parking lot. The asphalt is cracking and there’s only one car. The Rube Goldberg contraption on the hood and the faint smell of rancid grease and french fries indicate that it’s been rejiggered to burn cooking oil. The motel is two stories with exterior entry. Just a concrete strip. The sign declares it to be the Sleep Inn. Underneath it used to read AMERICAN OWNED, but someone has tried to paint over it. As I hurry past the front office I smell the pungent aroma of vindaloo.