George Martin - Busted flush

"But Pyote, Texas? I mean, really. Not much of a splash with that. No, they would pick a far more visible target."

"There are oil fields here," she counters.

"And the Midland/Odessa fields are just about played out, and believe me, the oil ministers in Riyadh and Baghdad and Amman know that."

She fingers that errant strand of hair and stares at me for a long time. "You people do know the Middle East better than we do."

"You're quite right. We've been oppressing them and manipulating them for far longer." I stand. "I'll see what I can find out. I have a few contacts over there."

Even through the thick walls of one of Saddam's former palaces I hear Baghdad humming. Everyone in the Caliphate-and any Muslim nation whether they are part of the Caliphate or not-gets subsidized petrol. It used to be said that every crane in Europe was in Berlin. Now every crane in Europe and a few more to boot are in the Middle East. Siraj is trying to jump fifty years in one. He may just succeed, unless those of us in the Western nations kill him first.

Siraj is neither a religious ascetic like the Nur nor a hedonist like Abdul. Instead, he's a Cambridge-educated economist, so we are meeting in his state-of-the-art office in the midst of marble splendor. Every few seconds the computer dings, indicating a new e-mail. In the outer office a highly competent secretary answers the constantly ringing phone, and the fax machine whines and buzzes and shakes as it extrudes pages.

I'm in my Bahir form: red-gold hair and beard, traditional garb, shimmering golden cloak, and that damn scimitar. The teleporting ace who beheaded the enemies of the Caliphate had appealed to the Nur, but no assassin likes to get within arm's length of a target. Give me a McMillan TAC-50 any day, and a location a mile from the objective.

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.

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.

He was naked and curled up in a ball on the ground. Something was wrong with the ground, though. It was hot and his feet hurt. Drake saw small fires here and there. There was a big fire, too, behind him and to his right. He could feel the heat on his back and legs. He stood up and started walking away from it.

He started shuffling forward, feeling with his toes for anything he might be able to cover himself with or use as a weapon. Unfortunately, if there was anything on the hot ground, Drake didn't find it. His legs began to hurt and he collapsed to the ground, crying.

After sobbing until his tears were gone he stood back up and wiped his runny nose.

He continued shuffling slowly forward. The fire he was heading away from still seemed close, or maybe it was the other fires. There was no way to tell. Drake felt the ground rising slowly beneath him. It was a small hill, but by the time he made it to the top, his sides were burning and he was gasping for breath.

In spite of the fact that Drake was scared and uncomfortably naked, he lay down and closed his eyes.