Busted Flush

Siraj is chain-smoking Turkish cigarettes. He’s the one who taught me to like the strong tobacco back when we were housemates at Cambridge. I would love a fag, but can’t—Bahir is a very good Muslim, even down to having a wife. For a moment I think about the girl I married seven months ago under pressure by the Caliph. The old man felt that the Caliphate’s remaining ace needed to set an example. But I need to put her aside. It’s dangerous for someone in my line of work to allow anyone too close to them for any length of time. Fortunately I have the perfect excuse—she’s barren. That accusation will probably keep her from marrying again. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. The truth is that it’s my fault, I’m the one who’s sterile.

I realize I’ve missed whole sentences of Siraj’s diatribe, and it shocks me. I’ve got to stop woolgathering. I’m going to get myself killed.

“. . . Texas? Texas! Why in the bloody hell would I bomb Texas? As if I have a nuclear bomb. Would that I did. Then they wouldn’t threaten me.” He snatches up a sheaf of papers off the desk as he roars past, and shakes them in my face. The rattling is like hail on a tin roof, and the gold ribbon that marks this as an official diplomatic communication waves before my eyes, causing me to flinch and pull back.

“The secretary of state is holding me personally responsible for this explosion. They are the ones with nuclear bombs buried everywhere. They should take a count.”

“I am sorry, Most High—”

“I told you not to call me that.” His tone is snappish and peevish. “I’m not Abdul, and I don’t want us acting like it’s 1584.”

“Yes, sir, I am sorry. I just thought you should know what they are saying.”

“And you know this how?”

“I have a contact who works in Whitehall. The Americans are enlisting the aid of the Silver Helix to investigate whether we’re involved.”

Siraj pauses, and a humorless smile puts grooves in his gaunt cheeks. A year ago he was a portly man with a smooth, unlined face. Now he’s thin, and worry and responsibility have gouged grooves into his forehead and etched lines around the soft brown eyes. “Maybe they’ll send Noel. He is their reputed Middle Eastern expert. I’d like to know how he evaded my hospitality last time, and extend it again.”

I incline my head. “Would you like me to kill him, sir?” It’s totally surreal. Usually I’m amused by these situations, but this time it gives me an odd crawling sensation.

“No, I’m tired of the world viewing us as ignorant barbarians. I’m teaching them to respect us.”

“But hate us all the more.” I pause, then add, “And they have the armies.”

“I’ll moderate prices before we reach that point.”

“And how will you know you’ve reached that point without crossing it?”

He looks at me oddly. I’ve taken a misstep, but to say anything more will only make it worse. I bow and teleport away.

Political Science 101

Ian Tregillis & Walton Simons

THIS WAS NO PLACE for a thirteen-year-old kid.

He didn’t remember how he got to the hospital, or even why he was there in the first place. His room smelled funny and the walls were painted a color so bland it didn’t even register in Drake’s mind. He was sick of being stuck with needles and hooked up to machines all the time. The gown they’d given him to wear did a lousy job of covering his chubby body.

The nurse had that fake friendly look on her face. She was middle-aged and skinny and she wasn’t going to tell him anything. Drake was going to ask anyway, though. So far, all he’d found out since his blackout was that he was at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. Which was hell and gone from his dad’s ranch outside Pyote.

“I want my mom and dad. Where are they? Where are my brother Bob and my sister Sareena? Why can’t I go home?” He crossed his arms across his hefty stomach like a pouty, underaged sumo wrestler.

“By now you should know better than to ask, young man. You know what’s going to happen if you keep this up.”

Drake knew exactly what would happen. “I don’t want to sleep anymore. I have nightmares. I’ve told you that.”

“A new doctor is coming here later on today, to ask you some questions. Are you going to be a good, cooperative little boy, or not?”

Drake shook his head and gave the nurse his coldest stare.

She sighed. “I’m asking you nicely, son. Please try to help us.”

Drake wasn’t interested in cooperating. Maybe if he caused enough trouble they’d kick him out. “Go away. Leave me alone.” He pulled the pillow from behind his head and threw it at her.

She caught it with one hand and used the other to open the door. “Orderly. I need assistance in here.”

He put up a decent fight, but the orderly was a big guy who didn’t play games. Eventually they got the needle into him. Seconds later, he felt like his body was an empty shell; his skin made of brittle clay that shattered and collapsed in onto itself. Darkness came, but it wouldn’t last.