BUSTED FLUSH
The
BUSTED FLUSH
George R. R. Martin
Assisted by
Melinda M. Snodgrass
And Written by
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'.54—dc22
2008036296
First Edition: December 2008
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright Acknowledgments
“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,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” and “A Hard Rain Is A’Going to Fall” copyright © 2008 by Victor Milán.
“Dirge in a Major Key” copyright © 2008 by Stephen Leigh.
“Mortality’s Strong Hand” copyright © 2008 by John Jos. Miller.
To Carl Keim,
ace architect,
good friend,
hideous mockery of a man
Keep on shufflin’.
Double Helix
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 won’t fill my throat with bile. I know my father is dying. I don’t have to read about it.
Here’s 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 don’t want him to sleep. I want to talk to him. Hear his voice before it’s 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. It’s 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 there’s the sputtering growl of a lawn mower somewhere on the street, and a dog carols his annoyance. I’ll 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.
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. “There’s wisdom between those covers,” he adds, and transfers his hand to the Bible. “Maybe by reading to me you’ll find some of it.”
“No.” His expression is serious. “But I know that something is wrong. I raised you, Noel, you can’t hide things from me.”
