Inside Straight

  DB leaned against the frame of the door to their room, six arms forming a cage around it. If Kate came out, she’d fall into his embrace whether she liked it or not.

  “I don’t want to talk to you!” Kate’s muffled voice came through.

  “Come on, what did you expect me to do? I wasn’t going to sit around waiting—”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Maybe you’ll think twice about playing hard to get next time!”

  Ana sidled up to the door. “Hey Kate, can I come in?”

  After a moment, the door knob clicked, unlocked.

  DB was tall, and Ana wasn’t. She slipped under his lowest arm and got in place to shoulder open the door. She turned the knob, but DB stuck a hand out, shoving the door, bracing it open when Kate tried to slam it shut from the other side.

  “Stop it!” Ana turned on him, glaring.

  His lips pulled into a snarl. “I’m talking to Kate here!”

  “She doesn’t want to talk!”

  He was immovable, a tree, a mountain. He could muscle his way in if he wanted, and they couldn’t do anything about it. He really seemed as if he meant to.

  “This is our room. You can’t come in!” Ana said.

  The plywood door cracked, then crunched as DB’s hand went through it.

  “Hey!” Kate shouted from inside. DB stepped back in apparent surprise, six arms raised in a gesture of innocence.

  Ana slipped in and slammed the door shut. She grabbed one of the chairs and pushed it against the door. Like that would keep him out.

  But DB didn’t try to get in again. “Bitch!” he hollered instead. “Earth Bitch!”

  After that, the hallway was silent.

  Ana sighed at the splintered hole in the door. Somehow, she found the edge of her bed and sat. She didn’t have any earth to use inside. She wouldn’t have been able to stop him if he’d really wanted to get in.

  Kate was sitting on her own bed, looking as shell-shocked as Ana felt. Her gaze turned downward, to her hands resting in her lap.

  “Maybe I should talk to him. Do you think I overreacted?” Kate asked. Ana automatically shook her head, though she honestly didn’t know. Kate ran her hands through her hair. “I fell for it. I can’t believe I fell for it. Big famous rock star hitting on me, and what do I think? ’Wow, he really likes me.’ I’m such an idiot.” She threw herself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Ana’s heart was still pounding hard. She’d spent an hour in the backyard discovering how much she could do with all these fantastic powers. And now she was learning about her limits. Inside the house, she was useless. And she couldn’t say anything that would make Kate feel better.

  “You’re wrong about him,” Ana said.

  “No, I’m not. Just wait, it’ll be Diamonds House he sneaks back from next.”

  “Yeah. But he’s not going after every woman on the show. He’s never looked twice at me.”

  Kate glanced at her, distracted from her introspection. Then, she laughed. “Is he really that shallow?”

  Ana was fairly sure he wasn’t, but on this matter, she couldn’t argue.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ana. He’s totally not worth it.”

  More cameras invaded the next day. Like Ana could be bothered by the presence of more cameras. But these came with complications.

  John Fortune opened the door to the house without knocking. “Hey—John here! Anyone home?”

  “Yeah.” Ana came out to meet him from the kitchen, where she’d been snacking. She’d been taking advantage of the food she didn’t have to buy or cook herself. That was probably what the cameras would show—round-faced, unsvelte Ana, always eating. “What’s up?”

  “We just stopped by to do some interviews. Where is everyone?”

  “I thought you guys check the footage every day.”

  “We haven’t gotten to last night’s yet.”

  She said, “There was kind of a blow up. Big TV drama, as Bugsy would say.”

  “Then it’ll be a good time for interviews, won’t it?” Michael Berman, all smiles, pushed his way in past the couple of crew who were lugging equipment. “Is Curveball around?”

  Ana felt her gaze darken, her expression shutting down. Getting protective. Kate did not need to be talking to this guy today. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Berman persisted.

  “Yeah.”

  John, always diplomatic, stepped between them. “We’ve got five other people here to interview. Maybe DB—he’s always ready to talk. We’ll be setting up on the back porch.”

  Oh, not the backyard…

  “Uh, yeah, about that,” Ana said, fidgeting suddenly. “That may not be such a great idea. I’m not sure you want to go out there.” What was she going to tell them? It wasn’t like she could hide it, they’d see footage of the whole thing.

  “Why not?” John said—and headed straight for the back door.

  Ana followed him. Even from the window the churned-up soil and mounds of earth were visible. How was she going to explain this? Maybe she could put it back the way it was. Flatten the ground, talk Gardener into planting some grass …

  “Holy shit!” John stepped onto the porch.

  Quickly Ana said, “I—I was sort of … practicing.”

  When he turned to her, though, he was smiling. “That’s a real mess out there.”

  “Yeah, well. The craters are Kate’s.”

  John just kept grinning. “Oh man, I love you guys.”

  Drummer Boy dwarfs his chair, dwarfs the surroundings. He fills the frame, so that it’s hard to tell if it’s a trick of the camera that makes him seem huge or if he really is that big. All six hands are in motion, tapping the arms of the chair, tapping the air as if working imaginary drumsticks, or just twitching to an unheard beat.

  His expression changes in response to a question. He glares, evoking the punk rock persona that made him the front man for the hottest band going. When he speaks, all six hands clench.

  “You want to know who I think should win? Who the cares! This whole thing is bogus. Everyone who says I’m just here to get publicity for the band? They’re right, ’cause that’s all this show is good for. Cheap thrills and shameless self-promotion. It sure as isn’t about heroics. Maybe Kate’s right. Maybe I should just worry about getting all the hot chicks here into bed and let the show take care of itself.” He laughs, then, but the sound is bitter. “All of ’em except her. ’Cause if she wants a reputation as the Ice Queen, that’s fine with me.”

  A rare look of uncertainty darkens his gaze for a moment, as if he’s realized he’s said too much. But the expression only lasts for a heartbeat, to be replaced by his usual, solid glare.

  Jonathan Hive

  Daniel Abraham

  FIRST AMONG LOSERS

  JONATHAN SAT AT HIS laptop and didn’t write. The cursor blinked.

  Well, I’ve been voted off.

  He backspaced to the beginning and sat, tapping his hands on the kitchen table. It was smaller than the formal dining table big enough to house almost thirty people. This one would only fit ten or twelve, even though there were only three of them in the great rambling mansion they called the Discard Pile.

  Or, colloquially, Losers Central.

  The thing about Hollywood is that it’s made up of total fakes and posers. Television is brimming over with people who have the depth of mud puddles and the compassion of sex-starved piranhas. I’m actually glad to be off the show. Delighted. Seriously.

  He highlighted and deleted it.

  The problem was how to deal with the public in a way that acknowledged the humiliation of having gotten booted in the first round without actually losing face. It wasn’t a simple thing.

  “Hey!” Joe Twitch said, “Isn’t this place fucking great?”

  Jonathan looked up. “Joe …” he began.

  Twitch held up a hand fast enough to make a whooshing sound like some cheap kung fu sound effect.

  “I
know, you buy the whole ‘we lost’ thing,” Joe Twitch said. “But I’m telling you, they’re gonna bring us back. Like later in the show, we’re gonna go back in. Why else are they keeping us in this kick-ass mansion, eh? Butlers and maids and everything. There’s a pool.”

  “Joe,” Jonathan said. “We lost. They’re keeping us around because they think we’re amusing. We’re a fucking sideshow.”

  “That’s what they want you to think,” Joe Twitch said. “But you wait. You’ll see. These shows do it all the time. Bait and switch, they call it. Or hey, bait and twitch. Get it? Twitch and … Ow!”

  Twitch slapped himself fast enough to make a little popping sound where the air rushed back in behind his arm, and Jonathan felt one of his wasps die. It was a small price to pay.

  “Can’t you keep those things under control?” Twitch asked. “Fucker stung me.”

  “Sorry. Sometimes a few just slip out,” Jonathan lied. “You should put something on that welt, though. I think they have something in the bathroom.”

  Joe Twitch vanished. The laptop stayed the same.

  Some people might say we’ve lost. I think of it as being differently victorious.

  [Backspace.]

  John Fortune came into the kitchen with a couple of grocery bags on each arm. He smiled and nodded to Jonathan.

  “Hey,” Jonathan said. “How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” Fortune said, hauling the sacks up to the countertop. “Just got a little snack food for you guys. And a new controller for the video game console. King Cobalt broke the last one.”

  “He gets excited,” Jonathan agreed.

  “At least he’s having fun, right?”

  Fortune started unloading the food, stocking up the refrigerator and pantry.

  “How’s it going?” Jonathan asked.

  “What?”

  “The show. You know, the next challenge. The teams.”

  Curveball, he didn’t say.

  “I think things are going pretty well,” Fortune said. “They don’t really let me in on much. Just do this, get that. But Peregrine seems happy with things. And Berman’s as happy as he ever gets.”

  “Berman?”

  “Network guy,” Fortune said. “He was at the Chateau Marmont. Armani suit.”

  “Twentysomething, visibly without conscience, hitting on all the women in descending order by cup size?”

  “That’s the guy,” Fortune said. “I have the honor of delivering his dry cleaning to the office next.”

  “Lucky you,” Jonathan said.

  “It’s a job,” Fortune said, crushing the now-empty grocery bags into little wads and dropping them in the compactor. “Anyway. Sorry they voted you off. It’s got to suck.”

  “I’ll survive,” Jonathan said. “Thanks, though.”

  Fortune turned to leave and Jonathan popped a wasp free from his skin and sent it skidding out after him. Fortune was driving a Saturn sedan about three years out of date. Not a car that screamed status. Through the wasp’s eyes, Jonathan steered it into the pocket of a jacket hanging in the backseat, then waited.

  If he wasn’t going to get to play the game as a contestant, he could at least play it his way. Through the wasp, he felt the car vibrate into life and pull away. He shifted his attention back to the laptop.

  Fire. Why did it have to be fire?

  [Backspace.]

  You might think I’d be bitter. Here I am, embraced by a team of people—yes, the noun in question is team—and they drop me the first chance they get. But what you don’t see on your television is all the behind-the-scenes stuff. Why did they kick me off when Earth Witch and Wild Fox were just as powerless? Well, folks, it’s because

  Jonathan stared at the screen for half a minute. [Backspace.] For half an hour, he kept at it and ended up where he’d started, with a blank page.

  The car stopped, the suit jacket shifted. Jonathan turned his attention back to the wasp, crawling out of the pocket and taking wing.

  Berman’s office was beautiful in a studied, artificial way. His secretary exuded both competence and pheromones, and (Jonathan assumed) was fucking Berman on the side in exchange for a future in the industry. Fortune nodded to the woman, who responded with familiarity and pity and waved him through the door. The wasp followed.

  Berman sat at his desk. Two older men and a severe-looking woman with gray at the temples were sitting in chairs that made them look shorter.

  “Just hang that stuff in the closet, okay, John?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Berman,” John Fortune said.

  “Okay,” Berman said, “So the Turtle’s out for week six?”

  “And Mistral refuses the new terms,” one of the men said. “It’s the adversarial thing.”

  “Detroit Steel has signed, though,” the woman said. “And I have a call in to Noel Matthews.”

  “Really?” Berman said. “The magician guy? Couldn’t we get a real ace? Thanks, John! I owe you for that. Really. Take care.”

  The door closed behind Fortune. Berman clicked his tongue. “Poor fucker,” he said. “I wouldn’t have hired him, except as a favor to his mother. Kid’s a dumb fuck; but at least he’s a nice dumb fuck. Okay, so let’s get back to the kraut. His agent’s being a total … Jesus fucking Christ! Shit, that hurts! There’s a fucking bee in here!”

  Wasp, motherfucker, Jonathan thought, as he steered the small body up to the air vent where he could still hear. Below him, the executive and his staff were running around waving papers and looking for a first aid kit. It made the day better.

  “Hey,” King Cobalt said. “I have a new controller for the game console. You want to play?”

  The Mexican wrestler ace was smiling so hard, Jonathan could see his cheeks pouching out under his mask. Jonathan felt the refusal welling up at the back of his mouth, but paused. At least the guy was having fun.

  “Gimme a minute to finish this up,” he said. “Then, sure, I’ll kick your ass if you want.”

  “You can try,” King Cobalt said and lumbered back toward the front room.

  Posted Today 3:34 pm

  AMERICAN HERO, DISCARDS | TRIUMPHANT | “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS”—QUEEN

  Yes, I have been voted off the team, but I still kick ass at Gran Turismo. I would say more, but King Cobalt has insisted upon a rematch, and I must rest my gaming thumbs.

  92 COMMENTS | LEAVE COMMENT

  Chosen Ones: II

  Carrie Vaughn

  THE ALARM RANG AT eleven A.M. A video conference call piped into the Hummer’s drop-down TV screen gave Team Hearts its second mission. It wasn’t a rescue this time, it wasn’t a disaster. It was a treasure hunt.

  Peregrine’s image told them: “You must retrieve the contents of a locked safe. The safe is located at the end of an obstacle course. Your entire team must reach the end of the course before you may attempt to open the safe. Deliver the contents to me, tonight, at the American Hero headquarters, for your chance at immunity.”

  The video display went black, and the members of Team Hearts stared at the screen.

  “Cakewalk,” DB said. “No problem.”

  “Famous last words,” Hardhat countered.

  In fact, the obstacle course wasn’t difficult. They followed their GPS tracker instructions to an abandoned industrial lot. There they found a maze built with concrete walls winding through the yards and buildings. Wild Fox commented,“Sure be nice to have a bunch of flying bugs to give us a view of this.” Everyone shushed him. Drummer Boy hoisted himself to the top of the wall, which was only (from his perspective) about ten feet tall. He helped everyone else up, and by following the wall to the end, bypassed the maze entirely.

  Next, they encountered about five acres of genuine military obstacle course: coils of barbed wire laid in the dirt, high walls to traverse—the works. After bypassing the maze, they decided that was the right strategy for the rest of it. Gardener’s vines tangled with the barbed wire, and as they grew they lifted, pulling it out of the way, creatin
g a path. Hardhat built steps over the walls, Drummer Boy’s strength helped lift people over, and Curveball’s explosions broke through a couple of obstacles. They were on a roll. After the last challenge, this almost easy success felt wonderful. But Ana was still waiting for her chance to do something.

  At the other end of the obstacle course, they found a concrete drainage tunnel, large enough that even DB could walk inside without ducking.

  “This thing just keeps going, doesn’t it?” Curveball said. Like all of them, she was sweating under the summer sun, streaked with dirt, and visibly tired.

  At the end of the short tunnel was a locked iron gate.

  “I’ll blow the lock,” Curveball said, tossing a pebble in her hand. “No problem.”

  DB glowered. “I think I’ve got this one.”

  “But this’ll be easier—”

  He’d already put his head down, hunched his shoulders, and charged. All six arms pushed against it. The bars buckled, but didn’t break. Grunting, his mouth twisting in a rictus of effort, he tried it again, digging his feet into the ground, slamming his bulk as a living battering ram against the barrier.

  Ana expected the lock to pop, the bars to break, something. But the sound she heard was crunching, a ripping felt as a vibration under her feet—like rock breaking.

  The gate’s hinges exploded free of the concrete in a shower of dust and debris. The rest of them ducked back, sheltering their faces with their arms. Somebody coughed.

  DB dropped the gate in front of him. It landed with a thud. Chunks of concrete still adhered to the hinges.

  “Like you said. No problem,” he said hoarsely, rolling his primary shoulders into place, brushing off the effort.

  Curveball didn’t even look at him as she stalked past, stepping carefully in between the bars of the gate. The others filed after her. Ana waited until last, trying to think of something to say. Something that wouldn’t sound trite, or wouldn’t inspire him to take a swing at her. Not that she thought he’d really hit her, but right now he looked like nothing so much as a primordial creature from a forgotten jungle, hunched over, hands clenched into fists, hooded gaze staring after the blond princess he could never have. It might be best to simply creep away silently, and hope he didn’t notice.