Busted Flush

“The revolutionary guy on the posters.”

“That’s me. You can call me Tom. Unless you can say Mokèlé-mbèmbé. Even if you can, call me Tom.”

The fat boy fell over and curled right back into fetal position. “What the fuck?” Tom burst out before he could stop himself.

“You’re gonna kill me!”

“Say what?” Tom was no slave to Western linear thought. Still, he thought that was a pretty funny worry for somebody who’d been announcing his desire to die so loudly thirty seconds ago. “Why the f—Why would I kill you, Drake? I wanna help you.”

“But you’re with the People’s Paradise.”

“Yeah.”

“Before they dumped me, the kidnappers were talking about, about the PPA. I think I just blew up your army.”

“We’ll get more,” Tom said. He imagined steam coming from Doc Prez’s ears at that. But the Indians would give them more tanks. Shit, if he could only bring this kid around, nobody would deny the PPA anything. Ever.

“But there’s only one you,” he said. “Right?”

The boy nodded.

“The People’s Paradise of Africa is a place where people can breathe free and never have to fear oppression again. Hell, I make sure of it.”

A blue eye peeked at him. “Oppression?”

“Shit, yeah. You’ve been oppressed. Wouldn’t you say? I mean, you tell me you got kidnapped, roughed up, dumped out on the road. And shot at by tanks. Sounds like oppression to me.”

“And if I go with you—”

“You’re safe. Nobody picking on you anymore.” Although it struck him you’d have to be an exceptional dumbass even for a jock to pick on somebody who could vaporize you and everything within seventy-five feet of him, toss fifty-ton tanks into trees a mile down the road. “You’d be appreciated. Hell, you’d be a hero. We’ll give you a parade.”

“A parade? Really?”

Tom nodded, solemnly. Fuck, Kitengi’d probably give you his sister’s virtue. And a nerd like you might even go for —

He straightened. “Okay, Drake. Let me help you up. Then I’ll bounce us back to Kongoville, get you cleaned up, get some decent food in you.” Not that the last looked too urgent, but the kid was probably hungry. All the time.

Drake looked past him and his eyes went wide.

Tom had been caught by surprise once. That was one time too many. He stepped quickly left and wheeled.

A man stood in the crater, as muscular as himself. And even more golden: not just his hair but his skin. Even his eyes. He held a scimitar.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “A teleport, huh. So you’re the sneaky sack of shit that shot me in the back. What, no Kalashnikov this time?”

“Figured it out, did you?” The newcomer had a fruity Brit accent.

“Just now.”

“You’re not so dim as you look. A gun didn’t work so well last time. Beheading’s pretty final, though. If needs must.”

“Needs must?”

“I didn’t come for you,” the golden man said. “I came for the boy.”

“Ah, well then—” As if surrendering, Tom raised his hands.

Fire flashed from both palms. But the man was gone.

Tom threw himself into a forward roll. He heard the scimitar swish behind him.

“Your powers aren’t much use against a teleport,” the man said. He lunged for Tom, sword upraised—

Tom stood twenty feet away. It was as close as he could manage, doing a hyperflight bounce to near Earth orbit and back. Better than he expected, actually. He smelled the soles of his tennis shoes melting on the hot glass.

“Kinda hard to kill someone who can move at light speed, too,” he said.

The golden man glared. Then he smiled. “Ahh. But if one doesn’t know when and from where—”

He vanished.

“—the blow will strike—”

The words came from close behind. Tom looked down his nose to watch the scimitar tip slash beneath his chin. He turned.

His opponent stared at him with eyes like gilded saucers. “The blade,” he said. “It passed right through your neck!”

“I’m just full of surprises.”

He hit the man in the center of his broad muscle-bulging chest. The bastard was fast; he almost managed to turn away in time to slip the tank-armor-buckling punch. But not all the way. Tom’s fist grazed him and spun him through the air to slam into the slanted green crater wall.

Tom heard a sizzle, smelled burned hair. The golden man squalled like a cat and vanished.

A moment later he was right in Tom’s face and the sword came whistling down between Tom’s eyes. It passed harmlessly down his body.

“Can’t . . .hit me when you’re insubstantial,” the man grunted, whipping the sword around in a figure-eight through the center of Tom’s torso. “I’ll wager you can’t . . . shoot fire, either. . . .”

Tom hung in space. The sun’s heat scorched him; he felt the vacuum trying to suck the breath from his chest and tugging at the tender membranes and capillaries of his eyeballs.

Then he floated twenty feet above the golden man. He flung out a hand and sent down a sunbeam that filled the crater with brilliance.

It spattered gobbets of glowing-molten sand in all directions. Drake yelped and threw a hand up in front of his face.