George Martin - Busted flush

Standing amid the devastation he had created, the Radical watched them drive away. His chest pumped like bellows. His stomach was a surging chaos of nausea. He had spent himself unimaginably. Soon his body would pay the price.

He gave it no thought. What he thought was, There, Meadows, you simpering hippie fuck. That's what I think of your peace-and-love horse shit.

"This is all for you, man," he said aloud. "All for you.

"I hope you fucking like it."

"Why are we here?" Chen asked. He clutched his heavy camera to his chest like a teddy bear.

"No idea."

Hei-lian glanced around the helipad next to the palace. A crowd had gathered. Wide-eyed, Sprout stuck close to her. She had panicked when Leopard Men came to escort them brusquely here.

So had Hei-lian, almost.

"Look," Hong said. "It's Nshombo. And his sister."

"Are they going to shoot us?" Chen asked in Mandarin.

"I don't think they'd have had you bring your gear," Hei-lian said. "Since they did, you'd best start shooting. Something's going on."

"Hei-lian?" Sprout asked in a small voice.

Quick headshake. "No idea, honey," she said. "Just stay close."

She saw the young healer-ace, Dolores. She stood between Nshombo and Alicia, dressed in gleaming white. Her face shone as if with inner radiance.

Someone shouted. Pointed to the sky. Everyone looked up.

A hundred voices gasped. A pale-skinned, golden-haired man floated above their heads. He raised a fist.

"Vive la Revolution!" shouted Tom Weathers. "Vive Dr. Kitengi Nshombo!"

"Long live Mokele-mbembe," roared a claque of Leopard Men.

To mad cheering, Tom descended from the sky. Palace guards in powder-blue uniforms held the mob at bay as he swapped handshakes with Nshombo and an embrace with his sister.

Sprout hit him at a run. He laughed and kissed away her tears.

He turned to give Hei-lian a big grin as she approached. She was too stunned to talk for the benefit of the microphone she'd clipped to her shirt collar moments before.

"Sorry to scare you like that," he said. "But we had to keep things secret. We wanted to spring a little surprise on the imperialists."

She flung arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. Then she stepped back.

"Why are you still alive?"

Dolores was suddenly by his side. Still holding Sprout in one arm he slipped the other around the Congolese girl.

"She healed me," he said. "She's the real heroine."

He turned and kissed her on the forehead as camera flashes flickered.

Hei-lian wondered why she felt so hollow.

Shadows are stretching and dancing on the plaster walls of the old cottage as Niobe clears the battered table. The air is redolent with the smell of beef stew. After delivering them here I teleported to Kirkwall for supplies.

We're using oil lanterns for light, saving the generator to heat water for baths. Drake's face is rosy from the heat of the fire and a large meal. He is nodding, then suddenly jerking back awake. Niobe ruffles his hair.

"Go to bed, kiddo."

"Can I have some more pudding?"

She smiles indulgently. The soft golden light and the shadows hide the worst of her acne. Drake spoons more chocolate pudding into his bowl and shuffles out. A few moments later I hear the springs on the old bed-stead creak.

"Why here?" she asks me as she starts to wash the dishes. I fill the chipped glass with more wine.

"Because there are seventy islands in the Orkneys and only seventeen of them are inhabited. If he loses control nothing but gulls and rabbits will die."

"He won't."

"I want to be damn sure of that."

"How did you know about this place?"

"My mother took a month one summer to look for Roman influence in the Orkneys. We crawled all over the islands, and found this abandoned farm."

The smile is back. It's very warm and genuine. "But no Romans." "No Romans."

The hot water won't last long, so I stand in the chipped and stained clawfooted tub, hand resting against the wall, and let the water sluice through my hair and down my back. The tightness is back in my chest, as if I'm filled with tears fighting to escape. It's just because I'm so tired. That's all it is. I should head to London. Report. Wait for dawn and check on Siraj.

The water is starting to cool. I soap up and rinse. The handles squeak as I spin them to turn off the water. The rings on the cheap plastic shower curtain rattle like chattering teeth on the rail as I pull it back. Suddenly the door to the bathroom flies open and Niobe and Drake rush in. She has one hand between his shoulders. The other is pressed against his forehead. He has a pudgy hand clasped desperately over his mouth.

I'm naked, and acutely aware of my deformed genitalia. She looks at me and her eyes widen. Once again rage is coursing along every nerve. I lunge forward and grab the frayed towel.

They reach the toilet and Drake folds up like an origami figure. The smell of vomit tinged with stew and chocolate pudding fills the steam-filled room. I feel my own gut heaving in sympathy. I'm frantically trying to wrap the towel around my waist.

Niobe holds out an imperious hand. "Wet a washcloth with cold water," she orders. I don't act immediately. I'm getting the sheltering towel in place and tucked. "Would you get me a damn cloth!"

This time I obey. It's a tiny room, and my back is against the wall as I try to shuffle out. I watch as she wipes Drake's face, and murmurs to him soothingly. I remember just such nights, but it's my father's warm baritone I hear. Drake is crying. I don't think it's just because he's puked. I leave them.

I should be sleeping. Instead I'm standing at the edge of the ocean, smoking. The waves hiss and giggle on the rock and sand shore, and the sound of the rising and falling water is like the breathing of a great beast. I want to walk into it and let the waves close over my head.

I have that writhing feeling in the belly when you feel like you've said or done the wrong thing with someone you want to please. Why did the little bastard have to get sick right then? Why couldn't it have happened five minutes later. I should have put the towel right by the tub. Dried myself in the tub.

Carried on the night wind, the squeak of the sagging front door seems like a scream. I listen to her footsteps. Oh, crap, she's joining me.

"You didn't have to be embarrassed. I've seen a few penises." I don't answer and the silence yawns between us. "Is that what the wild card did to you?" she asks.

Anger shakes me. "No. That's what a genetic fluke did to me."

Nervous, she gathers her thick, bristly tail into her arms and cradles it. "Isn't it the same thing?" she asks.

"Somehow it seems more cruel." I cough to clear the harshness from my voice.

"At least your deformity is hidden." And she drops the tail as if horrified to find herself holding it.

"I'm not sure that helps all that much. I can't tell you the number of times my classmates jumped me and pulled down my pants and underwear for a firsthand look. Children are such little animals." I see her blanch at that. "I'm sorry. You obviously don't feel that way."

"Children are a blessing."

"That's what my father says."

"But not you."

I should just walk away from this uncomfortable conversation, but I find myself answering. "A little side effect of this cosmic joke is that I'm sterile," I lightly add. "The noble line of Matthews dies with me."

She doesn't realize I'm joking. "And your father blames you for that?"

"Oh, Christ, no, he doesn't give a damn about all that. He just would have liked to have grandkids." I take a long drag on the cigarette and release the smoke in a sharp exhalation.