George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (62 page)

It began almost immediately when one of the guards shot Noel a grin. His front tooth, a stainless steel rod, flashed in the last spill of light over the horizon. He had noticed Noel’s glance at his wrist. He grabbed and yanked off the expensive gold Baume and Mercier watch. Next his cufflinks went, and then the small ring he wore on his little finger that served as a distraction for audiences.

Noel realized that the soldier in the front seat was eyeing him oddly.
Of course, they expect the British spy to do
something,
and not behave like limp prey. Yes, this is going to hurt
.

Noel lunged forward and grabbed the man’s chin in one hand, wrapped his free arm behind his head, and yanked. The stitches in his shoulder tore free. The muscles in Noel’s back burned as he braced and pulled the soldier over the backseat. The man’s flailing legs kicked the driver and sent the car careening in a mad serpentine back-and-forth across the road. Everyone was shouting. A fist took Noel in the kidney, and he gagged from the pain. The muscles in Noel’s arm tensed. A quick twist would break the neck.

No, better not to kill one of them. I don’t want them
too
angry
.

Instead, he tried to claw for the soldier’s pistol, and the men on either side of him piled on. As best he could, Noel covered his head and endured the drubbing. He lost interest in the rest of the drive, and only returned to his surroundings when he was dragged across the flagstones in the courtyard of the prison. It was full dark and still very hot. Noel was so thirsty that his mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on iron filings.

Finally they dumped him in a cell. It reeked of shit, urine,
and sweat. There were no mattresses on the metal cots, just coiled steel frames. A small, ferretlike man lounged on a cot, but he scrambled to a back corner and huddled by the stainless steel and overflowing toilet as the soldiers dragged Noel in and flung him down on the concrete floor. There were a few farewell kicks, and Noel wasn’t able to turn fast enough and not take the blows on his abused gut. One boot did connect with his ribs, and he heard a
crack
, and pain flared.

Transforming was not going to be fun. He eyed his fellow prisoner. And of course he couldn’t be observed.

“Lucky for you I hurt too bad to kill you,” he said in English.

The man grinned at him ingratiatingly. Noel groaned and got to his feet, crossed to the man, and held his breath against the stench from the toilet. He lashed out with a foot, and kicked the man in the head. Pain made him less precise. There was a chance he’d just created a breathing, shitting vegetable.

Slowly, painfully, his body burned and shifted, flowing like hot wax. Breasts pressed tightly against the fabric of his shirt, and the pants were suddenly far too snug across his hips. Lilith’s long hair brushed at his back. Noel concentrated and teleported away.

Captain Flint set aside the pages of Noel’s report and leaned back in the stone chair that had been carved to accommodate his massive stone body. The commander of Her Britannic Majesty’s Most Puissant Order of the Silver Helix, the ace division of British Military Intelligence, was almost eight feet tall and weighed more than three thousand pounds. He rubbed his eyes, momentarily masking the flames that formed his pupils. “
Not the result we had hoped for
.”

Noel leaned forward to better hear his commander’s whispered words, so incongruous, coming from the gigantic gray stone body.

Rains sluiced down the outside of the tall windows of this Whitehall office. It was decorated in Flint’s unique style. He
made no nod to faux intellectualism. There were only a few volumes on the bookshelves. Instead the polished wood displayed a collection of British arms and armaments ranging from neolithic arrowheads to Enfield revolvers.

“
I’ve never seen you so badly misread a situation before
,” Flint continued.

“Yes, well, sorry about that.”

“
You allowed a personal relationship to interfere with your judgment
.”

“Yes, thank you, I rogered the pooch. I get that. Shall we move on? What do you want to do about Siraj?”

“
Nothing yet. Let’s observe for a little while. You’re in a unique position to do that
.”

“Yes, to think it was me—well, Bahir—that put the son of a bitch in power.”

“
He’s still better than the Nur, or Abdul-Alim
.” Flint shifted the papers and studied another section for a long moment. “
Interesting that he named a caliph and didn’t take the title for himself
.”

“He’s not such a fool. He can never be sufficiently ardent for the fundamentalists, and he can wring our nuts more effectively if he’s perceived as a secularist.” Noel hesitated, and the memory of Straight Arrow’s condescension replayed for a gut-tightening instant. He knew it was childish of him, but he wanted to have one small thing about which to crow when next he met his American cousins. “Are we going to take credit for rescuing the secretary-general?”

“
Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t know if I ought to let you take the bow
.”

“But you will.” Noel added just a bit of wheedle to make it less demanding.

Flint sighed. “
You got the poor bastard kidnapped in the first place. I do wish you’d stop improvising
.”

“I get results.”

“
Just not always the ones we expect
.”

“Touche. What do we do about Fortune and these baby aces?”

Flint snapped his fingers and watched the flame dance briefly on his fingertips. “
Have you any suggestions?
”

“Is this you setting up for plausible deniability, or do you honestly want my opinion?”

“
You’ve been around these children. I expect your insights are better than my own
.”

“Then let me have a presence in all camps. Bahir with Siraj. Noel can continue to liaise with the Yanks. And Lilith can join their little club. Lohengrin will forgive her if she asks prettily enough. After that I’ll just …” he flashed Flint a smile, “… improvise.”

Flint snorted to cover his amusement. He pointedly pulled out another file. “
Keep me informed
,” he said, without looking up.

Noel let his body shift. Felt the whisper of Lilith’s long hair across his hips. Soon he would measure his dark against Curveball’s gold, and find out if John Fortune really was a hero.

He doubted it.

Looking for Jetboy: Epilog

THE LAST DAY OF
American Hero
begins with the phone chittering in Jamal Norwood’s apartment in Sherman Oaks. It is Eryka, the cute female production assistant who replaced John Fortune—“Hi, Stuntman! We’re picking you up at nine A.M.!”

Jamal blinks, not sure what time it is, where he is. “I’ll be ready,” he mumbles, or something close to that.

Showered, somewhat fed, Jamal finds himself on Moorpark Street, waiting for the
American Hero
Humvee. Today is to be the last challenge. Today is to be the big live broadcast. What will he be tomorrow? Winner of
American Hero?
A million dollars richer?

Or the answer to the trivia question, “Whatever happened to the ace who came in second?” At this moment, he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him.

Stuntman has had zero contact with Rosa Loteria since the penultimate vote that named them the Terrible Two. As he follows Eryka into the gym of Carpenter Avenue School, he sees Rosa arriving with her escort at the same time. She actually smiles and offers a toss of the head by way of greeting. In fact, as they find themselves waiting at the entrance, she says, “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

“None,” Jamal says. “Which means this is no different than any other day on this show.” And she laughs.

Peregrine and a camera crew are in the auditorium, along with three hundred grade-school kids who go wild when the aces enter. Jamal and Rosa look at each other with
what the hell?
faces. “You’ve seen them for the past couple of months! Now, here they are, the two finalists for
American Hero
, Stuntman and Rosa Loteria!”

And the applause grows even louder. The kids seem genuinely happy to be in the presence of real, live aces. As they climb up to the stage, Rosa says, “They must have us mixed up with the ones who went to Egypt.”

And what appeared to be a long day looks to be even longer.

While Jamal bounced back from the penultimate challenge, all hell had broken loose in the Middle East with the former Discards from
American Hero
making actual history, while Stuntman, Gardener, Jetman, Tiffani, Rosa Loteria, and the others were nothing but tabloid fodder.

Then came the visit with Mom and Big Bill Norwood.

His parents still lived in Baldwin Hills; not in the same house Jamal grew up in, rather, in a two-bedroom condo a few miles away. It was another dislocation that made Jamal feel as though he were visiting strangers.

His mother fussed more than usual, proud to have a celebrity in the family. More precisely, a wild card celebrity. “It was so strange to see you … being hurt like that!” Mom had never really accepted Jamal’s wild card. “You didn’t have it as a child!” she had protested the first time he gave his parents a demonstration of Stuntman’s powers. (Okay, maybe he was showing off, leaping from the fourth-floor roof of their condo building and going
splat
on the parking lot below.) But Jamal’s appearance on television—the sort of thing the neighbors could see—somehow made his condition more real to her. Being an
American Hero
made it okay for Jamal Norwood to be an ace in his own home.

That was Mom, of course. Big Bill Norwood was a whole different matter. When Jamal entered, Big Bill was in his
easy chair, remote in hand, detached. He nodded a response to Jamal’s greeting, then let his eyes flick back toward a basketball game. (It always amazed Jamal that his father could follow four sporting events simultaneously on television, but couldn’t sustain a conversation longer than a few sentences.)

“Mom says you saw the show,” Jamal said, knowing there was no reason to postpone the inevitable conflict.