Busted Flush

A flash. Sekhmet’s head swam. Her vision turned all formless white, as if she drowned in a Nile of milk. She understood: the strange-looking girl had used her power, blinding all in the vicinity. Even a Living God was not proof against that, it seemed.

But Sekhmet did not need to see. She had the senses of a beast, as well as the brain of a man.

And the wrath of a god.

Though her sensitive ears rang from the unnatural loudness of guns she smelled the soldiers’ sweat, laced with adrenaline bright as silver. Smelled the hot metal of the great iron beast, the petroleum farts of its diesel exhaust, the strange chemical reeks emitted by its weapon.

She breathed flame. The horrific shrieking that answered it was sweet as the music of ugab flute and lyre, accompanied by the crackle of fire and the smells of burning cloth and hair and man-flesh.

She bunched muscles, leapt. Her mind and body knew where her target lay. She struck the squat metal monster’s turret and clung like a locust. Her claws dug deep into metal that the men inside thought armor to protect them. She roared in amusement as much as triumph.

She heard screaming, smelled man-breath that carried traces of tobacco and a breakfast of gruel, bread, and pulses. She lashed out with a forepaw. The strike of a mortal lioness could break the neck of a wildebeest. Sekhmet the Destroyer was much stronger than that.

She felt the impact of the plastic helmet on her pads. Felt more than heard the skin and tendons and tissue and bone give way as her fury tore the gunner’s head from his neck and spun it toward the ditch.

Hot blood sprayed her face and shoulders. She yanked the headless corpse from the hatch and flung it aside. Then she drew a deep breath, thrust her muzzle into the opening that reeked of sweat and metal and chemicals, and filled the car with fire.

The screams of those trapped within exalted her.

With a bound she reached the crest of the dune from which the foe had shown her—her, Sekhmet!—disrespect. She roared again in triumph and challenge.

But the blindness still fogged her eyes like cataracts. The stinks of burning and the knife-edged clamor of ammunition bursting in the burning vehicle blanketed nose and ears. Yet she knew.

Her enemy had escaped.

She raised her head and roared. In nature lionesses did not roar. But she was Sekhmet the Destroyer. She roared.

We shall meet again, dog-spawn, her roaring said. And when we do, I shall taste your blood.

“Hei-lian!”

Walking through a well-lit corridor on the palace’s ground floor, Sun Hei-lian stopped and turned. Sprout broke from her female handlers and ran to her. She wore shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her blond hair streamed behind her. Hei-lian had a moment to wonder why she was being taken for her usual exercise in the garden. With her father’s fall, why would the Nshombos indulge this unnatural creature?

The creature hit her in a hug so desperate it was almost a tackle. It took all Hei-lian’s taijiquan-honed balance to keep from being bowled over.

Sprout clung to her like a handful of flung muck and wept, drenching Hei-lian’s blouse. “My daddy! They killed my daddy!”

For a moment Hei-lian stood rigid. Her stomach heaved with revulsion at the contact, at the disgraceful display she’d been made a part of. Many times her life depended on fast thinking followed by faster action. Now she had no idea what to do.

I should push her away and go about my business, she thought.

Instead her arms went around the young woman and tentatively returned the hug.

Vision blurred. She felt wet heat on her cheeks. I’m crying!

Holding awkwardly on to Sprout, Hei-lian shook her head. It’s pent-up emotion—fear of what loss of Weathers might do to our hard-won position in the PPA. That’s all.

“Oh, Hei-lian,” Sprout moaned.

He means nothing to me, Hei-lian thought.

Mechanically she stroked the long golden hair. It struck her that for all the many things she knew how to do, she had no idea how to comfort someone. “There,” she said. “There, there.”

Nothing.

Even in the glaring morning sun the tracers from the BO-105 attack helicopter’s strap-on mini-gun made red streaks in the sky. Brave Hawk wove deftly between them, great falcon’s wings spread wide.

“He can’t keep that up long,” Simone said. She had gotten minor scorches and punctures from the autocannon blast and flying glass. Our Lady of Pain had healed her without putting herself out of action for more than an hour. How she did that still made John cringe, and left Simone inclined to guilt up over it.

“Isn’t there something you can do?” he asked. “Blind the chopper dudes?”

“Not without a chance of blinding Tom. So close to the ground he might crash.”