George R. R. Martin - Busted Flush (Wild Cards, Book 19)

BUSTED
FLUSH

The Wild Cards Series

Wild Cards

Aces High

Jokers Wild

Aces Abroad

Down and Dirty

Ace in the Hole

Dead Mans Hand

One-Eyed Jacks

Jokertown Shuffle

Double Solitaire

Dealers Choice

Turn of the Cards

Card Sharks

Marked Cards

Black Trump

Deuces Down

Death Draws Five

Inside Straight

Busted Flush

A WILD CARDS MOSAIC NOVEL

BUSTED
FLUSH

Edited by
George R. R. Martin

Assisted by
Melinda M. Snodgrass

And Written by

S. L. Farrell | Victor Miln
John Jos. Miller | Kevin Andrew Murphy
Walton Simons | Melinda M. Snodgrass
Caroline Spector | Ian Tregillis
Carrie Vaughn

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in
this novel are either products of the authors imaginations or are used fictitiously.

BUSTED FLUSH

Copyright 2008 by George R. R. Martin and The Wild Cards Trust

All rights reserved.

Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC .

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Busted flush / edited by George R. R. Martin ; assisted by Melinda M. Snodgrass ; and written by S. L. Farrell... [et. al].1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-1782-7

ISBN-10: 0-7653-1782-6

I. Martin, George R.R. II. Snodgrass, Melinda M., 1951 III. Farrell, S. L.

PS648.S3 B87 2008

813'.54dc22

2008036296

First Edition: December 2008

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Double Helix copyright 2008 by Lumina Enterprises, LLC.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda copyright 2008 by Caroline Spector.

Just Cause copyright 2008 by Carrie Vaughn.

Political Science copyright 2008 by Walton Simons & Ian Tregillis.

The Tears of Nepthys copyright 2008 by Kevin Andrew Murphy.

Volunteers of America, Wont Get Fooled Again, and A Hard Rain Is AGoing to Fall copyright 2008 by Victor Miln.

Dirge in a Major Key copyright 2008 by Stephen Leigh.

Mortalitys Strong Hand copyright 2008 by John Jos. Miller.

To Carl Keim,
ace architect,
good friend,
hideous mockery of a man
Keep on shufflin.

TO THE HUNGRY SOUL, EVERY
BITTER THING IS SWEET

Melinda M. Snodgrass

I FIND MYSELF AVOIDING the passages about ashes and worms. The pages are thin, almost feathery beneath my fingers as I turn them, looking for another passage that wont fill my throat with bile. I know my father is dying. I dont have to read about it.

Heres one. It reads more like a page out of Lord Dunsany than a collection of musings by long-dead Hebrews. Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the water: who maketh the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind. I have a good voice and I know how to use it. I use it now, softening and deepening the final words. I know he should sleep. I dont want him to sleep. I want to talk to him. Hear his voice before its silenced.

That damn lump is back. I keep swallowing, trying to make it smaller. Through the mullioned panes I can see a glint of sun on the sluggish waters of the Cam. Its August, and it feels like this endless summer will never end. The room is breathlessly warm, and the heavy air holds that sick/sweet scent of fatal illness. I can feel my shirt clinging to the skin of my back. Outside theres the sputtering growl of a lawn mower somewhere on the street, and a dog carols his annoyance. Ill probably need to mow the lawn for my parents, or find a teenager. Through the open window I can smell the green. The branches of the apple tree out back sag under the rosy burdens. Maybe thats what happens to every living thing when they have to breed.

My father touches the back of my wrist. His skin feels just like the onion-thin pages of the Bible that now rests in my lap. Thank... you. His blue eyes are surprisingly alert in a face reduced to harsh bone and stretched skin. Theres wisdom between those covers, he adds, and transfers his hand to the Bible. Maybe by reading to me youll find some of it.

Fantasies and fairy tales, is what I think, but I keep control of my features. So, you think Im foolish. I grin at him. Thanks.

No. His expression is serious. But I know that something is wrong. I raised you, Noel, you cant hide things from me.

Hes smiling, but I still have that visceral gut clench that affects every child when their parents display that kind of preternatural omniscience. It passes quickly. After all, Im twenty-eight, and I amuse myself for a moment wondering what he thinks Ive done. No pregnant fans. Im a hermaphrodite, so Im sterile. Im not in debt. Both my public job and my secret job pay me quite well. What could he imagine I had done? For a moment I toy with the idea of telling him.

You know Im a member of the Silver Helix, Dad, a division of MI-7. What you dont know is that Im their designated assassin. I dont remember how many people Ive killed. They say you never forget your first. His face is as blank as all the others.

But of course I dont. Standing, I set aside the Bible and stretch. Tea? Theres lemon tarts, and some boiled tongue for sandwiches. Will you eat something?

Ill try.

Our kitchen is small and cluttered, and several days worth of dishes form towers in the sink. A fat fly moves lazily between the trash can and the dirty dishes. The buzzing is almost hypnotic. No, no, no. A sharp head shake drives back the sleepiness. Looks like Im going to have to hire a maid as well as a teenager.

The tongue, sullenly red and pimpled with taste buds, gleams with congealed fat under the refrigerator light. American kitchens are almost obscene with their gigantic refrigerators crammed with food. We English are starting to go the same way. Who has time to shop for each days meal that day?

I wonder who had cooked the tonguecertainly not my mother. She never cooked. My father took care of the house and the kid, and prepared every meal, and he fit every clich about English cooking. A spurt of anger flares in the center of my chest, but I back down from it. It isnt Mums fault hes dying. She was the bread winner so I suppose she had the right to dodge the drudgery. But I suspect if she hadnt worked she still wouldnt have cooked and cleaned.

Her devotion to radical feminism has defined her life. Hell, she was so militant that she made damn sure I was raised as a boy. Now figure that one out. They may look funny, but Ive got both sets of genitalia. I could have been raised as a girl, and even kept the same name, just changed the pronunciation.