Daniel Abraham - Inside Straight

Michael, Rustbelt, and Bubbles were fifty yards away. It might as well have been as many miles. Rustbelt bellowed; the Djinn glanced in their direction. Michael felt as helpless as he had the night he’d seen Kate and Fortune on the television set in Rome. As helpless as he’d felt during the first challenge when none of them knew how to work together, as outmatched as he’d been when Golden Boy tossed him aside as if he were a child.

“ If the Djinn touches you, you are lost. He will slay you and drink your powers .”

But if they didn’t have to touch him at all…

“I’m pretending it’s the Djinn’s head… .”

Michael blinked, fighting the despair flowing from the Djinn. He tore away the remnants of the Kevlar from his chest. “Rusty, you gotta go after that fucker—make him pay attention to you somehow, just don’t let him touch you; Bubbles, can you keep him distracted, too, maybe put him off balance, the way you did Golden Boy?”

“And what are you gonna do?” Bubbles asked.

“Play,” Michael answered. Grimacing as aching muscles protested, he began to tap on his body with his open hands, playing on himself as if he were a set of living congas—softly at first, then louder and harder. The sound welled out from him, unfocused, echoing from the ruins of houses along the road and the ramparts of the High Dam. The Djinn turned, noticing him as his dark eyes narrowed. Michael tightened the throats of his neck, forcing the sound of the drumming into a narrow pattern, all of it aimed toward the Djinn. The Djinn grimaced as waves of percussion hammered at him. He seemed to stagger a step backward, but that was all. The wispy shadows continued to flow darkly from the screaming Fortune toward him …

… as Rustbelt charged blindly at him; as Kate redoubled her efforts; as Klaus shook his head groggily and rose, clad again in Lohengrin’s ghost steel. They were not going to be enough, Michael knew. The shadows faded and Fortune’s screams fell to whimpers as the Djinn laughed.

… a torrent of bubbles broke over the Djinn, crashing down on him, the impact sending his guards tumbling, as well as Rustbelt and Lohengrin. Michael struck his body harder than he ever had, as he forced his multiple throats to close even more tightly so that his own skull ached with the sound—he forced his vocal cords to contract yet further, as he imagined the bones of the Djinn’s skull vibrating and shaking, rattling in the fleshy envelope that held them and slamming the brain against its bone prison, again and again and again.

The Djinn screamed a shrill, high cry. He dropped Fortune’s body and clapped his hands over his ears; thick, bright blood poured from his nose and mouth. He sank to his knees. Shadows whirled chaotically around him, a hundred smoky figures of those he’d consumed. Michael continued to drum, to pound at the man with sonic fists. The Djinn wailed. His head shivered, a frantic quivering that rendered his features blurred and unfocused. Blood gushed from his mouth and into his dark beard. The violent motions of his head sent droplets splattering everywhere.

His eyes rolled back. The shadows around the Djinn fled. He collapsed, a stricken tower, crushing his guards beneath him.

The fear that had held them all evaporated in the same moment. The guards, those still standing, gaped at their stricken commander—now just a man laying on the sand, swaddled in yards of cloth that no longer fit his entirely normal stature. A breath later, they fled, pursued by the Living Gods’ followers, who had turned with a desperate hope rising in them.

Kate was staring at the fallen Djinn. Then her gaze moved to Michael, his hands now down at his side. In his mind, he saw the way she would smile, how the realization would dawn on her face, how she would run desperately and gratefully to him.

She did run. She sprinted to Fortune and sank down alongside him, cradling him in her arms as they gathered around her: Lohengrin, Bubbles, Rustbelt. Several of Hive’s wasps quivered on Lohengrin’s shoulder. “He’s really hurt,” Kate said, her voice breaking slightly. “Help me. Help me get him away from here.”

Lohengrin moved, kneeling to help her pick up the moaning, half-conscious Fortune. “No,” Michael called to the ace. His throat openings ached and the words grated. “I’ll get him for her.”

He lifted Fortune in his many arms. With Kate alongside him, stroking Fortune’s bloodied hair and crooning encouragement, he walked from the battlefield with the rest of the injured, his own great wound invisible.

Golden light strobed across the white plaster walls as Bahir teleported into the room. The young soldier, his cheeks downy with the fragile growth of his first beard, gave a grunt of alarm, and the machine gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Bahir caught the weapon before it could hit the floor and discharge. He handed it back to the boy, and felt the stitches in his right shoulder twinge.

“Go,” Bahir said. He had to repeat the command to be heard over the panicked shouts from the street below, the whine of a helicopter engine ramping up, the occasional chatter of gunfire, and the moaning wail of the wind tugging at the eaves of the mansion. The boy gulped and left.

The bedroom looked like the erstwhile ace Simoon had swept through. Carpets were missing. The silver coffee set that had been Abdul’s pride—and the source of so many tantrums when the coffee had been poorly prepared—was gone. The Caliph himself lay on the wide bed shrouded by the white mosquito netting, writhing and rolling, biting at the corner of a pillow, and emitting shrieks of rage and grief.

The door to the room flew open, and slammed against the wall. A panicked officer rushed in. “Caliph, we must flee. The aces may come.” He broke off and blurted, “Bahir. The battle … ?”

“Lost.”

There was a moan from the bed.

“We’re safe for the moment, but I would not linger.”

Abdul quailed before the burning gold eyes.

“Retreat?” the officer said.

“Yes,” Bahir said, and waved him out. He crossed to the bed. A broken mirror on the floor gave back a crazy kaleidoscope image of himself. The usual brilliant gold and red luster of his hair and beard were dimmed by a coating of sand, and the edge of his golden cloak was stained with blood and dirt. Blood also stained the front of his shirt where the cut from Lohengrin’s sword had broken open again. Bahir dropped onto his knees at the side of the bed. The rank smell of fear-driven sweat stung Bahir’s nostrils.

“Lost. Lost. Allah turns his face from me.” The Caliph’s voice held the same moaning wail as the wind that shook the windows with a booming hum.

“The Djinn was powerful, but you are the son of the Nur. Let us exact vengeance on the West.” It was a subtle push. It was never wise to let the Caliph think you were instructing him.

Abdul-Alim sat up and mopped his face on his sleeve. He was an unlovely sight, with his swollen, reddened eyes and red nose dripping snot. There were painful welts on his cheeks where he had been stung by the American ace’s wasps. “The UN secretary-general,” he said. “You said to invite him. If he hadn’t been here I couldn’t have seized him.” Abdul’s tone was querulous.

“Well, now we can use him. You can show them the justice of the Caliph.”

Abdul stood up and paced. The broken mirror cracked beneath his booted feet. “Yes. Yes. I warned them what would happen. His blood will be on their heads. I think I should kill him, yes?”