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 THE Times 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.”
Gabriel, Delia, and Iolante are in the backyard. Gabriel is turning the flower beds into riots of blossoming flowers. The clashing perfumes are almost overwhelming. Iolante flits about half dancing, half flying. Delia is surrounded by rabbits, squirrels, dogs, a few mice, a mole, a pony, and God help me, a milk cow who lies in the grass contentedly chewing her cud.
“You have to put them back from wherever you summoned them,” I say sternly as I kiss the top of her head.
“Finders keepers,” she says.
“I will not be known as a horse thief and a cattle rustler,” I say.
“Have fun,” says Gabriel with an off-handed wave.
“Be careful,” says my princess.
Bethany is in the kitchen with Drake. They are making tea. Whatever Bethany is creating out of the ingredients on the counter smells wonderful. I dip a finger into the batter and get my hand slapped.
“No, Daddy, not ’til it’s cooked.”
“You’re in charge,” I tell Drake and then I can put it off no longer. I picture Siraj’s hotel room and make the jump.
He’s behind the desk twining a pen between his fingers. Siraj is not a restless man and anxiety goes shivering down my spine. Perhaps it’s because of the way he trapped me in my Noel form back in Cairo, but I allow my soft peripheral vision to take over and I catch a sense of movement behind a connecting door of the suite.
I’m teleporting even as a blinding flare of pain rips through my side. I need to concentrate before I jump. Think about where I’m going. Visualize the place. This time it’s purely unconscious. I hit the ground amid the piping screams of children. I’m lying on my back half in and half out of the sandbox at the local playground in Cambridge. My father had taken me there to play when I was a kid.
My left hand is slick and sticky with blood as I press it hard at the point of my agony. I’m six blocks from home. But I can’t go home like this. Niobe will freak. I roll over and manage to get to my knees. The swings on the tall steel swing set are swaying lightly in the breeze, the chains squeaking. I realize that blackness seems to be closing in from either side, narrowing my focus. I need a doctor. Now!
I concentrate and find myself collapsing among the chairs in the emergency room of Charing Cross Hospital. Their clattering is like the distant sound when a row of punting poles goes tumbling. There is again screaming. I can feel my body morphing and shifting and it hurts like hell where the bullet hit me. The screams start again at higher intensity, then rough hands grip my shoulders and legs, there’s the sound of tearing as my shirt is torn open. They’re trying to drag my hand away from the wound. There’s enough of them so that eventually they succeed.
The first thing I see when I awaken is the puke-colored curtain that has been drawn around my bed. Beyond the cheesy fabric comes the beep and wheeze of medical equipment, the sounds of coughs and moans, and a querulous old voice calling, “nurse, nurse.” My torso is swaddled in a tight bandage from just below my nipples to just above my navel. It hurts to sit up, but I manage and pull back the curtain. Through a window I can see a night sky. Shit, Niobe is going to be so worried.