Busted Flush

At the dais, Jayewardene nodded his balding head. “It’s my pleasure to say that we have good news for everyone. We’re all very proud of what John Fortune and his team have accomplished and the restraint they displayed, and the restraint shown by the Caliphate. I am prouder still of what we have come here to announce. This is a momentous day.”

There was a stir at the head of the dais as the heavy curtains were pulled open. On the wall, a huge canvas sign had been hung. A COMMITMENT TO PEACE, the letters read, with the logo of the United Nations to one side and the banner of the Caliphate on the other.

Seeing it, a fury rose inside him. Michael flailed at his chest with his upper four hands, the raging of wild drums causing those nearest him to clap hands over ears and cower, which brought everyone’s gaze around to him. His throat openings flared, open-mouthed, as cameras swung their glassy cyclops eyes toward him; flashes popped and flared. “Hey, I’ve got the fucking real news!” he shouted, his voice louder than the PA system as Jayewardene tried to bring attention back to the podium. Now the entire room was looking his way; now the microphones were pointed in his direction with eager faces behind them. Jayewardene was standing mute in his expensive suit behind the podium, Barbara Baden whispering to him. Prince Siraj glanced worriedly from Jayewardene to his own guards, who scowled angrily in Michael’s direction. Fortune pointed toward Michael, shouting orders to the security people.

“You people want the truth?” Michael roared at the crowd. “Do you want to know what actually happened, and why they don’t want me standing up there with them? They sent me out there, and I . . .” He took a deep, gasping, half-sobbing breath. “I ended up killing kids for your goddamn oil. I killed children. They won’t show you the pictures, they won’t talk about it. They’ve paid off people in black, liquid money to keep them quiet. They’ll tell you there’s no proof and no one will admit it ever happened, but I was there and . . .”

Michael stopped. His hands dropped to his side. Somewhere in the midst of his tirade, the faces that turned to him went quizzical. They’d stopped listening. They gaped at him, whispering to each other. Michael saw a face he recognized, a reporter and blogger for Salon who had interviewed Michael a half-dozen times in the past. “Carl,” he said, “you know I’m not making this up. This is import—”

He stopped again. Carl’s gray eyes were wide and astonished. The man shook his head. “Adesque ad muilen freinet krium,” he said.

“What the fuck . . .” Michael listened to the chaos around him—no one around him seemed to be speaking English. He could hear nothing but the babbling of nonsense syllables—no recognizable language at all. Up at the podium, Barbara Baden was smiling down at him. She lifted a hand to him as if in greeting.

Barbara Baden. The Translator, the ace who could make anyone understand anyone else. The realization hit him a breath before the cold fury: she could turn language into a babel just as easily.

He screamed, a wordless cry, and started down the aisle toward the podium. Security moved to stop him; he shoved aside a quartet of burly men, his six arms sending them careening backward into the crush of reporters. The crowd scattered wildly out of his way, and he leapt up onto the dais as Jayewardene and Baden were ushered quickly through a door at the back of the room, as Tinker quickly and discreetly followed them, as Prince Siraj’s men clustered around him and fled the dais, as Rusty and Kate watched uncertainly from their side of the stage, as Lohengrin’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, as Fortune stepped directly in his path.

Michael shoved the man aside—hard, with a sense of deep pleasure. He reached with his top set of hands for the banner—to Michael, it now seemed to read E CIKWUGADF RO WIAKL—and ripped it from the wall, the canvas tearing and ripping. Behind him, he heard a sinister growl and a strange light flared, sending his spidery shadow moving on the wall.

“Oh, good,” Michael said, turning to see the glowing form of the lioness of Sekhmet, her tail thrashing angrily. “You want to play, you fucking bug? Hey, I’ve been waiting for this chance.”

The lioness spat fire and leapt at him and he went to meet her. They collided near midstage. Claws raked down Michael’s arms, tearing deep into muscle and ripping into tattooed flesh as Michael shouted with the pain and the blood. The pain was catharsis; it gave him strength.