Busted Flush

Michael grasped Sekhmet’s paws with all six hands, letting the momentum of her charge take him backward, allowing himself to fall and roll as he used multiple arms and two legs to throw her past him. Sekhmet slammed into the podium, crushing it to splinters that sprayed the crowd as she tried to regain her feet. She gathered herself with a low, sinister growl; Michael began to drum madly, blood droplets flying from his arms, slamming waves of pure sound toward her, his throats tightening to shape it: as he had with the Righteous Djinn, as he had in the oil fields. The lioness roared and reared back with the sonic assault, a high and pained wail, then her haunches lowered as she readied herself to charge again.

Something slammed into the dais between them: a marble from Kate’s hand. It exploded, tearing a massive hole that gouged a crater in the tile floor underneath. “Don’t,” he heard Kate say, and he wondered which one of them she was talking to.

The white-armored form of Lohengrin stepped in front of Sekhmet at the same time, his gleaming sword waving warningly. Michael looked at Kate, already with another marble in her hand. At the same moment, Rusty plowed into Michael from behind. “Cripes, fella,” he heard Rusty say as the ace’s huge, strong arms went around him, trying to stop as many arms as he could. “You gone crazy?”

Lohengrin, facing Sekhmet, had his hands up, though Sekhmet growled and paced furiously, her tail lashing. Her claws tore at the carpeted wood of the dais, but she didn’t charge. Michael shrugged aside Rusty’s bear hug, freeing himself. He stood, blood dripping down his arms and spattered across his body. Rusty was still holding one arm.

“Michael,” he heard Kate say. He couldn’t read her face. “I mean it. Don’t.”

He looked at Kate. And away. He’d understood her; he’d understood Rusty. He could read the letters on the shredded banner on the stage—which meant that Barbara was no longer using her power.

“I quit,” he declared loudly, glaring at Sekhmet. “The Committee is a fucking travesty. We had something that was supposed to be wonderful and pure and moral, and you’ve turned it into exactly the kind of organization all those power-hungry tyrants and despots we’re supposed to be fighting would create. I won’t be part of it anymore. I won’t fight for oil, I won’t fight for money, and I won’t fight for political power. I sure as hell won’t kill more kids for any of those. I quit.”

He put his back to the stage, to Kate, Rusty, Lohengrin, and Fortune. Without another word, alone, he left the hall.

Double Helix

I WILL TREAD THEM IN MINE ANGER, AND TRAMPLE THEM IN MY FURY

Melinda M. Snodgrass

I FLIPPED THROUGH THETimes and finally checked my pagers. The headlines were all about the imminent collapse of the Nigerian forces. Not even the addition of Royal Marines had apparently helped. It felt strangely removed from me and my situation. Just as the six calls from Flint, twelve from Siraj, and seventeen from Fortune didn’t seem to much matter.

My manager had only called once to tell me tearfully that I was killing him here. He was going broke. His children would starve. His wife would be forced to shop at Wal-Mart. I didn’t call him back.

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.”